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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986761">Organized Crime for Dummies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrazychatlady/pseuds/thecrazychatlady'>thecrazychatlady</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Never the Blood [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Comedy, Crack Taken Seriously, Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions (Bungou Stray Dogs), Gang War, Multi, Mystery, Violence, agatha christie is ready to fight a bitch, bamf golden trio, dangerous golden trio, hermione granger is ready to fight a bitch, hermione leads an illegal organization, mafiamione, order of the clock tower OCs, sniper harry, takes place after canon, the black lizard has no braincells</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:35:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,454</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986761</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrazychatlady/pseuds/thecrazychatlady</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after graduating Hogwarts, Harry, Ron, and Hermione have basically dropped off the map. Harry turned down a job in the Auror Office and Hermione ignored several apprenticeship offers. Ron was the only one to take a job in the Ministry, working in the same department as his father. However, they've been far busier than any outsider account could say. And so the Golden Trio follows in their headmaster's footsteps, founding an underground organization to rival the threat of the Order of the Clock Tower and change Wizarding Britain for the better. <br/>--<br/>“Even the current minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, is considered progressive for doing very little in the way of equality. His hands are tied by bureaucracy and politics.” <br/>Hermione smiled wider. “Mine, however, are not.”<br/>Chuuya leaned forward then. “You haven’t answered my question, Hermione,” he pointed out. <br/>“You’ve been asking the wrong questions.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dazai Osamu &amp; Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Harry Potter/Akutagawa Gin, Hermione Granger &amp; Harry Potter &amp; Ron Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Never the Blood [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790695</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>175</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Watch Your Step in Yokohama</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Chapter One</b>
</h1>
<p>
  <span> ‘O war! thou son of hell,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whom angry heavens do make their minister,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He that is truly dedicate to war</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hath no self-love, nor he that loves himself,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hath not essentially but by circumstance</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The name of valour.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Henry IV Pt 2</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[A woman with riotous dark curls of hair sits on a bench outside of an airport in Japan. She is wearing a plain black blouse, slacks, and sensible shoes. She looks like the epitome of a working woman, unremarkable in every way. Beside her is a dark red suitcase. The sky is a brilliant blue, unmarred by clouds.]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione Granger, nineteen, came to Yokohama prepared for the blazing summer heat. She was taller, maybe a bit prettier, but she looked the same as she had when she’d graduated Hogwarts with distinction two years prior. If her younger self had been asked what she planned to do after graduation, she likely would have responded along the lines of “working in the Department of Mysteries” or “volunteering in the Archives” or “studying for a mastery”. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, she was perched on a bench, slowly baking, after going almost completely off the radar once she’d graduated. The only people to have seen her since were the Weasleys and Harry. She was perfectly fine with this. It was according to the plan, after all, that they’d hammered together in the quiet hours of the night in the months up to graduation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her phone rang, so she reached into her pants pocket and pulled it out. The caller ID was an unknown number, but very few people actually knew hers, so she wasn’t worried. She put the phone up to her ear. “Granger,” she said in greeting, and the voice on the other end sighed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Mione,” said Ron, sounding relieved. “You got off the plane safe, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never did trust those muggle flying machines. I wish you’d just taken an international portkey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione rolled her eyes. It was an argument they’d had often in the past year, because Hermione’s business took her all around the world and she refused to do so with magical means. “The ICW tracks international portkey usage,” she pointed out, falling into old argument patterns out of habit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Illegal portkey,” Ron said dryly. “We’re all capable of casting one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>that on our record,” Hermione shot back, and she could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ron gearing up for another long spat when she cut him off. “Look, I’m not dead, the plane didn’t crash, everything’s fine. Harry checked in already?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Two hours ago,” Ron confirmed, his voice going from concerned to businesslike. “He’s already at the hotel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Brilliant,” Hermione said, before a flash of yellow caught her eye and she smiled, slow and cat-like. “Tell him I’ll be a little late for check-in, won’t you? I have some business to take care of.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ron groaned. “He’s going to throw a fit,” he said morosely, and Hermione laughed. “He’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ve got to go, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright,” Ron said, “be careful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Always,” she chirped, before hanging up. She tucked the phone back into her pants pocket and stood from the bench, tugging her luggage so it rested behind her. “Honestly. I just got off the plane, can’t I freshen up first?” she said casually. But her heart was racing, pounding so quickly and loudly in her chest that it had to be audible. She could feel her hands sweat even more, and it was not a comfortable feeling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Where’s that Gryffindor courage, Hermione? </span>
  </em>
  <span>she asked herself, taking even, measured breaths. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman who stepped into view was of a medium height, with yellow-blonde hair tied up into a messy updo. She wore a white shirt and a black blazer. In that outfit, with that demeanor, she looked exactly as unassuming as Hermione did. She couldn’t see any visible weapons, but she knew that meant absolutely nothing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d come to this city knowing that every inch of it was Port Mafia territory. She knew the risks, but she also knew what she stood to gain. Unluckily for her, the gains far outweighed the risks, and so she was standing in front of a woman who could only work for the Port Mafia with only her wand up her sleeve. She could defend herself if she needed to, she knew, but she also knew just how deadly ability users could be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Hermione </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t want to alert the Japanese ministry of magic to her presence on their shores. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman smiled tightly at her. “It’s now or never,” she replied, before gesturing with a pale hand. “Your ride awaits, Ms. Granger.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione followed her, trying not to sweat through her clothes, and was led to a side street where a car with tinted windows idled. It was a perfectly unassuming car, the same way the woman was a perfectly unassuming office worker, and the same way Hermione was a perfectly unassuming traveler. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The women got into the driver's seat and motioned for Hermione to sit in the back. She did, after putting her luggage in the trunk, and then belted herself in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” she tried, before biting her tongue. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t make small talk with the murderous assassins, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she reprimanded herself, and pressed her lips together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To her surprise, the woman answered. “It’s too hot,” she said, her voice neutral. Or was she amused? Hermione couldn’t be sure. “I know you know me already, but I’m Hermione Granger,” she said finally. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Higuchi Ichiyo,” the woman replied after a beat of silence. She said nothing else for the rest of the car ride and neither did Hermione. She was taken to a small teahouse about fifteen minutes from where she had been picked up, with a forest-green roof and a sliding glass door. There wasn’t any sign on the outside with the name of the establishment, but Ichiyo walked in confidently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione took another breath and followed her in, pushing the door closed behind her. She was led to a small table in the back of the store, where Ichiyo was already standing. “I’ve brought her as you requested, sir,” she said, bowing slightly. When Hermione saw who she was meeting with, she just barely stopped herself from breathing a sigh of relief. She’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoped, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but she hadn’t been sure, and this made things so much easier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chuuya Nakahara, looking almost exactly the same as he’d had the day he’d left Hogwarts three years ago, smirked at her. “Long time no see, Hermione.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn’t changed, she thought, lightheaded. He was still pale and swathed in black, though perhaps he looked old enough now that he wouldn’t be mistaken for a seventh year. The same hat perched on his head, and his eyes still had that same dangerous gleam in them that terrified her once she knew what it meant. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiled back at him, fierce and sharp in a way that bared her teeth, because she knew how to play the game now. “Mr. Nakahara,” she said, tilting her head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ichiyo hovered, almost nervously, at the side of the table. Hermione paid her no mind, but was reassured by the cool press of her wand against her bare skin. She wasn’t defenseless here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nakahara rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair with an irreverent ease that she found herself envious of. “Please. It’s Chuuya.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chuuya,” Hermione agreed, and he gestured for her to sit down. She did so, as primly and politely as her mother had always wanted her to do at social gatherings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’ve you been?” Nakaha—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Chuuya </span>
  </em>
  <span>said, still leaning back in his chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione shrugged. “Busy,” she said truthfully, and Chuuya laughed. “From what the Boss says, you’ve been </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>busy,” he replied, before straightening in his chair. He regarded her for a long moment, blue eyes intent on her face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” he said then, and crossed his arms. “You want to be the Port Mafia’s liaison with the British magical government.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was there, out in the open. The ill-defined goal she’d had when coming to Yokohama, the stepping stone in all her plans, laid bare. When said like that, it seemed to expand like a puff of air, yet felt weighty and unsettling. Hermione knew, logically, that it was a necessary step. She didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>it to be a necessary step, but it was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione smiled again at Chuuya, but this one was close-lipped. Guarded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Keep your cards close to your chest, hedgehog. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She brushed the memory away and opened her mouth. “Certainly one way of putting it,” she said dryly, hyper aware of the way Ichiyo stiffened. Chuuya’s grin widened slightly, and, in sharp contrast, he relaxed somewhat. “I’m your interviewer,” he admitted. “What does Hermione Granger, top of her class and all around goody-two-shoes last time I saw you, want with us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione had anticipated the question, but that didn’t make it any easier to answer. Thankfully, she was prepared. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Professor Dumbledore, may he rest in peace, did make a bargain with you,” she pointed out. “You could say I’m fulfilling his end of the deal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chuuya deliberated, still watching her with those sharp eyes of his. “We’ve got an agent in your ministry, monitoring the situation. Took us months to get them in and months more to put them in a position of any influence. When your request for a meeting came through, we had them dig up what the magical government has on you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ah. That was not wholly unexpected, but the idea that there was an agent in the ministry...damn. She needed to have a conversation with Kingsley. But that could wait. She nodded at Chuuya for him to continue, and he did. “Graduated top of your class two years ago, not a single mark on your criminal record. The agent asked around, and it turned out everyone thought you’d go onto a promising career in research or something. But you dropped off the map and all they found was that you’re working some obscure, nonmagical desk job.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione let some of her relief show. “Ron did a damn fine job with the PR,” she said, and Chuuya quirked an eyebrow at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Voldemort was a bigot,” she said, and before he could object to her non sequitur, she barrelled on. “But, and here lies the problem, it’s an issue with magical society as a whole. To those like him, and most of the people in Britain’s government, nonmagical people like my parents are less than trash. As a starry-eyed student, it was my dream to fix that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How idealistic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quite,” Hermione agreed. “It did soon become apparent to me that the official channels would never be an option. For the kind of reform I want, I’d need to be minister for magic. But there hasn’t been a single minister, in the long, sordid history of magical Britain, whose parents weren’t wizards.” She resisted the urge to fiddle with her hair. “Even the current minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, is considered progressive for doing very little in the way of equality. His hands are tied by bureaucracy and politics.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione smiled wider. “Mine, however, are not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chuuya leaned forward then. “You haven’t answered my question, Hermione,” he pointed out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been asking the wrong questions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chuuya laughed, and Hermione was relieved. “Aren’t I the interviewer?” he asked, teeth flashing in the dim light. A frisson of fear went up Hermione’s spine. Regardless, she refused to lean back and away from him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” she said, and Chuuya shook his head. “I can see why the bastard liked you so much,” he said mournfully. “You both like to talk in circles.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione shrugged. She crossed her legs under the table and said, “Chuuya, has your agent told you about the disappearance of several prominent Death Eaters?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly interested, he nodded. “They were acquitted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They were Death Eaters,” she said. “Not all of Voldemort’s top members were there at the raid, and those absent were acquitted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me you had something to do with that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione kept her expression neutral and her tone conversational. “But of course I did, Chuuya. I’ve had ‘something to do’, as you’ve put it, with the disappearance of </span>
  <em>
    <span>several. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And in my professional opinion, they deserved what they got.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Professional, hm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Absolutely.” Hermione tapped a finger on the table, doing a little wandless and nonverbal magic to generate a small scale illusion on the wood. All it did was scrawl out a simple line drawing of a hand, upraised in supplication, and fading into motes of dust at the wrist. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, in thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> she quoted. “It’s from a sonnet. To be fair, it’s one about pregnancy, but the gist is that it’s one’s duty to protect the beauty of the summer from the ravages of wintertime.” She looked Chuuya in the eye as the illusion faded from the wood and she retracted her hand. “I’m sure your agent has heard the rumors.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chuuya glanced down at the table, then back to her. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “You’re a little shit,” he said, though his tone was affectionate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They spent an hour hammering out the details of their alliance. Hermione was to do her best to push the magical government in a direction favourable to the Port Mafia. This didn’t mean all that much, because they did have their agent in the ministry for actual, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>treason </span>
  </em>
  <span>and all. She’d sent in bimonthly reports, and in exchange, she had a quasi-official offer of aid from the mafia. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For what she needed to be done, it was the perfect job, dangerous and precarious as it may be. Hermione left the meeting with a straight back and her chin up, and her heart felt lighter. One task already fulfilled, though she had other errands in the city to complete. But they could wait until after she got to the hotel and took a shower. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[Chuuya remains in the tea house, looking out of the window with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Winter’s Ragged Hand, huh?” he muses, and Higuchi’s face softens. “She seems very determined,” she says, and Chuuya chuckles. “No wonder the bastard liked her so much.”]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[At the start of their seventh year, as they’re still traveling to Hogwarts on the train, Hermione steels herself for a difficult conversation.]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She smoothed out her uniform skirt, then clenched and unclenched her fists. “Harry, Ron,” she said, and something in her voice made them both straighten. “What’s up, Hermione?” Harry asked, eating a dark green Bertie Bott’s bean. He made a face as he chewed. “Seaweed,” he muttered, at Ron’s questioning glance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Remember when I said I had plans after graduation?” Hermione asked, and Harry nodded. His gaze was sharp and calculating, so far away from the wide-eyed kid he’d been once. But time changed them all, she knew, and she wasn’t exempt from it in the slightest. Her younger self would be horrified. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I spent some time last year looking up statistics. Did you know that the highest position a muggleborn has ever reached was junior undersecretary to the minister? Not even an actual advisor. And as soon as they were on the cusp of becoming an actual undersecretary, they were mysteriously fired. Supposedly, they’d been caught doctoring reports and were let go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Supposedly’?” Ron asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione nodded. “But there was no information released on what they were doctoring, who they were doctoring for, and why they hadn’t been given an actual trial and were instead quietly kicked out of the ministry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You suspect foul play,” said Harry, leaning back in his seat with a thoughtful expression. Hermione nodded again. “There aren’t any muggleborns in the Wizengamot, either,” she said. “None, because they’re all family seats. Voldemort wasn’t the disease, he was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>symptom, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and when I was younger I wanted to work in the ministry to fix things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ron eyed her nervously. “Hermione, what are you getting at?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione took a deep breath, telling herself to slow down. “Look, Wizarding Britain can’t take another war. It wouldn’t survive one. And I’m not talking about a revolution.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It sounds like you are,” Harry pointed out. His voice was neutral and his expression was only curious. She couldn’t read anything off of him, and that scared her. But Ron was worse. He looked openly suspicious at this point. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Convince Ron,  and Harry will follow, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she reminded herself. “You’ve read about the Death Eater trials,” she said then. “Every single one who wasn’t at the manor or previously in Azkaban was acquitted. Even Lucius Malfoy was released. There needs to be change, and it’s not going to happen through whatever false democracy the ministry tries to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get to the point, ‘Mione,” Ron said, leaning forward. “What are you saying we do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione steeled herself. “I’m saying we do something like the headmaster’s Order of the Phoenix,” she blurted out. “An organization that doesn’t answer to Britain’s ineffective, broken government, that does its own justice like the Order did with Voldemort.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry’s eyes had gone a little blank at the mention of the headmaster. He had passed two months ago, quietly and in his sleep, and it was still a little raw for all of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why not just the Order?” Ron argued. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s been disbanded,” Harry said softly, before Hermione could say the same thing. “And it was specifically founded to get rid of Tom Riddle. Not the revolution Hermione’s suggesting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not a revolution,” Hermione disagreed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry slid his bright green gaze over to her and smiled slightly. “Not yet,” he said, and Ron let out a startled laugh. “You’re crazy,” he said, breathless, but he was smiling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did he feel it too? There was giddiness curling in Hermione’s stomach, the sort of fervent high that kept her awake at night drawing up plans for </span>
  <em>
    <span>after. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There was something in the air, a possibility so vibrant and beautiful and </span>
  <em>
    <span>palpable </span>
  </em>
  <span>that she couldn’t help but smile at them. “Are you in?” she asked, already knowing their answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Obviously,” said Harry, rolling his eyes, and Ron nudged her shoulder. “You’re crazy,” he repeated, “and we might die. Or get sent to prison.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or worse,” Harry butted in. “We get expelled.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ron started laughing for real then, as Hermione whapped Harry’s arm and glared. “I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>eleven,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she hissed, and Harry just chuckled at her. “One insufferable eleven year old,” he pointed out, and Hermione glared harder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is he wrong though?” Ron said in a stage-whisper, and Hermione turned to glare at him too. “I preferred it when you were looking at me like I was proposing we assassinate the minister and style ourselves as the successors to Lord Voldemort,” she said tartly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Ron would reply, Harry patted her on the shoulder. “I was also an insufferable kid in first year,” he said with a shrug. “Ron was worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was not!” Ron said with mock outrage, and Harry only raised an eyebrow. “‘It’s no wonder no one can stand her. She’s a nightmare, honestly,’” he mocked, and Ron tackled him into the seat. As the boys mock wrestled, taking care not to tear up the compartment, Hermione only scooted to the other side. She’d gotten all lost in her thoughts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had thought, originally, that it would have been harder to convince them. But, watching Ron pin Harry with his slightly taller frame and give him a noogie, making his already messy hair stick up in even stranger ways, it felt like everything was alright. Like everything was as it should be. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[At the hotel, in the present, Hermione is laying on her back on the bed. Harry is sitting in a chair at the provided table, looking over his supplies.]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On the table in front of Harry lay his sniper rifle. It wasn’t the same one that his teacher had given him to use, the same one he’d used to blow Voldemort’s brains out. This one he had bought himself, using his own hard earned money from his job at the twins’ joke shop. He’d polished the worn metal until it gleamed and meticulously cleaned each part. It hadn’t been too hard to smuggle it past the muggle authorities at the airport, really. Just a few concealment and deflection charms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beside it was a box of rifle ammunition, his pistol, and ammunition for that. He was taking inventory of all his supplies mentally, wondering when he would need to buy his next box of ammo, when Hermione let out a groan from the bed. “I’m exhausted,” she said, and Harry turned in his seat to face her. He propped a chin up on his hand, watching her slowly sit up and rub at her face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You had </span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>conversation,” he said dryly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but your teacher is an executive,” Hermione shot back, plaintive. “I had to be sure I didn’t, you know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mess up </span>
  </em>
  <span>spectacularly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” she said, sounding offended. “I got the job. I’m officially the Port Mafia liaison with the British ministry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got that in writing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course not,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “They’re going to want to be able to deny any involvement with me, especially during this probationary period.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry blew out a sigh. “Illegal organizations, am I right,” he deadpanned, and she returned his sigh with one of her own. “Our every movement is going to be under surveillance too,” she said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry jabbed a finger at his invisibility cloak, which was neatly folded on top of the chest of drawers. “You realize we’ve got that, plus disillusionment, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Unfortunately, the PM has an agent in the ministry. Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>what defenses against magic they have, not to mention they must have ties to the Japanese magicals too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s going to be a problem,” Harry muttered. “Did you get a message to Kingsley?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Haven’t yet. I knew I should have given him one of those Protean parchments...but until I know what kind of surveillance we’re under, I don’t think I will.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry made an agreeing noise before turning back to his work. The safety on his pistol kept getting stuck and he was quietly resigning himself to cleaning it out. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. No Rest for the Wicked</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry gets into a fight, a gangster almost dies, and Hermione takes a level in badass.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Chapter Two</b>
</h1><p>
  <span>“Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Othello</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[Because they have numerous errands to run while in Japan, Harry is making the most of the few hours he has to himself. The sky is a bright, cloudless blue and the sun shines brightly overhead. He is alone, and Hermione is still at the hotel. Probably taking a nap.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yokohama was a gorgeous city, Harry thought absently to himself. He walked with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted slightly up, taking in the sights of the city. It was a lot warmer than London, and quite a bit drier. The switch from muggy to...well, not muggy...had been a surprise. He shouldn’t have packed so many sweaters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a result, he was wearing a pale white polo shirt he’d dug out of the bottom of his suitcase, mostly because it was the only thing in there that wasn’t wrinkled or too warm. He’d brought his wand in case of an emergency, but his cleaned-out pistol and sniper rifle were both back in the hotel room, stashed away in a drawer. It was tucked in his back pocket, despite Moody’s repeated warnings about accidentally blowing his arse off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry peered at a shop that came up on his left. It had a bright pink storefront and the sign told him it was a sweetshop. Acrylic cases of candy faced the street, and he found himself examining them. He was thinking about going in to buy some, maybe surprise Hermione with them. She worked so damn hard and, despite having moved out from her dentists parent’s house, she still steered clear of sugar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be fair, only one of her parents was an actual dentist. Her mother, Harry thought ruefully, was more of an unlicensed surgeon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was eyeing the red strawberry-shaped candies when he saw something odd in the glass. A shadow shifted slightly out of an alleyway across the street, so at odds with the bright sunshine. A shiver went up his back, danger sense prickling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d always had good danger sense. Was someone following him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept walking down the street, eventually crossing. He wished he could cast a revealing charm, but in a public space? Too risky, and Hermione was adamant about not attracting the attention of the Japanese ministry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry kept glancing at the reflective shop windows out of the corner of his eye, tracking the shadow. He could never keep it entirely in his field of vision, but he’d catch flashes. A ragged bit of cloth here, dark hair there. Someone was definitely following him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Under his breath, he hummed a song that had played on repeat in the airport. It was stuck in his head, the lilting melody looping over and over. There was another alley ahead, if he turned the corner. It led to a side street if he’d remembered the map right. If someone was following him, he should probably try and get rid of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry ducked into the alley and took out his wand, quickly casting a disillusionment charm on himself and silencer on his shoes. He crouched in the gray shadows cast by the wall, wand gripped tight. He waited. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The seconds stretched by as motes of dust floated through the air. Nobody had come into the alley yet, and his thighs were starting to cramp. He wished he’d brought his invisibility cloak, but the very nature of disillusionment was that the most effective way to use it was by standing very still and occupying less space. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, someone walked into the alley, and Harry sucked in a quiet breath. A slight, thin man darted in, cloaked in a ragged jacket with a mask covering the majority of his face. His hair, the same dark shade of black as his jacket, was in a spiky ponytail. He seemed to melt into the shadows with the ease of long practice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was very pretty, a distant part of Harry’s brain acknowledged, before the adrenaline surging through his veins kicked in. More than that, though. He looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>dangerous. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn it, he should have trained more with nonverbals. As quietly as he could, he muttered the incantation for a stunning spell, but the masked man jerked to the side with an inhuman grace. His dark eyes widened and he sprang off the alley wall, rushing in close. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The man flicked his wrist. A knife sprang into his hand with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>snick,</span>
  </em>
  <span> sunlight glinting off the bright metal. He brought it up to bear, nearly slashing across Harry’s face. He missed by a hair as Harry jerked his head back, the knife whistling past his nose. He stumbled back but the man was unfazed, flipping his grip in the blink of an eye and driving the knife across from shoulder to hip. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit, shit, shit!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A last second dodge brought Harry </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>out of the way, years of dodging spells kicking in with a vengeance. He dove forward, recklessly, and grabbed the man’s knife hand. His wrist was thin and bony under Harry’s large hand and he could feel, as loudly as his own heart beating in his chest, the flutter of the man’s pulse against his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That move brought him closer to the masked man, whose face was twisted into a narrow glare. Harry was bringing up his wand again, to try and stun him, but the man was faster. With a single movement he’d yanked the wand out of Harry’s hand and tossed it to the side, the wood clattering against the pavement. Harry shoved him away and skidded backwards, cursing the loss of his wand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man advanced, menacing despite his shorter height, and switched grips in a whirl of gloved hand and metal. The serrated edge of the knife gleamed and Harry swallowed nervously. “Look, can’t we talk about this?” he tried, but the man was upon him in a second. Harry kept his eyes on the knife as he went in for a stab but Harry jerked out of the way, the blade tearing a gash in his shirt. Fuck, he’d liked that shirt too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a vicious twist, he grabbed the man’s hand and disarmed him. The knife went clattering on the ground and he kicked it away with his foot, and it skidded through the dusty pavement to rest by the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sprang apart, Harry breathing heavily and the man’s glare only growing more intense. Harry was the one to rush forward, trying to pin the masked man with his greater height and body mass. But the man was </span>
  <em>
    <span>slippery, </span>
  </em>
  <span>worming out of holds hastily learned in a beginner’s wrestling class with ease and experience. Every time Harry tried to pin him down, the man had already twisted out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were tumbling on the ground by then, and somehow the man had gotten his legs around Harry’s neck and was squeezing. His breaths came out in tight gasps as black spots began to creep across his vision, the lack of air sending pins and needles down his limbs. With a jerk and a yell, he somehow got the man’s grip to loosen and rolled away, gasping for air. But he’d rolled in entirely the wrong direction, away from the knife. The man had picked it up by the time Harry had managed to stagger unsteadily to his feet, teeth bared in a snarl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The masked man twirled the knife in his hand, long, pale fingers gripping the hilt. Harry took a breath, readying himself for the next attack, but the man was too fast. He’d somehow closed the distance in a split second, and Harry found himself staring into the man’s dark, fathomless eyes. The blade at his neck was cold and sharp. The angle it was at forced him to tilt his head upwards, away from the knife that could kill him with a single slash. Against his back was the wall, just as cold and unforgiving as the man’s stare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry swallowed, eyes still locked with the man’s. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, a quick, tapping rhythm of fear and excitement in equal measure. Working for Hermione usually meant an obscene amount of paperwork and long stakeouts, but it was fights like these, fights that made the blood rush in his veins and his breath come in uneasy gasps, that made it worth it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grinned down at the masked man, swallowing because his mouth felt suddenly dry. “Guess you win, huh?” he said, and the masked man scowled. But instead of slashing across his throat, the man twitched the knife away. An arc of flashing steel and pale fingers later, and the knife was somehow concealed again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry slumped, no longer needing the wall to support himself on. He rubbed at his neck absentmindedly, still looking at his attacker. “Not today, then?” he asked, and the man turned away from him in a single movement as sharp as his blade. He stuck his hands in his pockets and started to walk away, back out of the alley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry picked up his wand from where it had rolled away. “What gives!” he yelled, but the man didn’t stop walking. He did, however, turn his head slightly to regard Harry, black eyes as bottomless as the sea. He flicked his fingers at him in a sort of lazy salute, before melting back into the shadows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry, breathing hard, was left standing in the dusty alleyway. He had to tell Hermione, didn’t he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to be a fun conversation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[One step forward, five steps back. It is three days before Christmas, and it is a rain-lashed night, one of those when the wind howls as it tears, shrieking, through the city. The rain falls in thick sheets, battering the poor people unfortunate enough to be outside. A man stumbles. One arm is wrapped around himself in a vice grip and the other clutching at a signpost to keep himself upright. The other Londoners give him a wide berth.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack felt his grip on the signpost sliding lower. With the slick of the rain under his palm, he couldn’t hold it steadily enough to get his feet under him. Damn it, he couldn’t afford to fall out here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brown hair was plastered to his skull by the driving force of the rain, obscuring his vision. It had already been swimming with strange colors and blurring in and out of focus from the pain in his side. God, how many times had he been shot? Once? Twice? If he died on the cold and sodden London streets, would anyone remember him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He may as well just give up and die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The burning cold of the signpost leached into his hand, stealing all the warmth he had left. The pain flared again, a hot, insistent feeling. His vision whited out for a split second, but he gritted his teeth. Jack took a shallow breath and shoved up to his feet, letting go of the signpost to stagger forward. He wouldn’t die here, he wouldn’t. He refused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took one shaky step, then another. Just put one foot in front of the other, he told himself, and somehow managed to walk another ten meters before the pain flared again and he had to stop. He was so goddamn close! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just ahead of him, maybe fifty meters away, was a nondescript building, with pale cream walls and a dark red roof. It may as well have been salvation. But only if he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>get there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and only if the people who owned the clinic were actually in. It was almost Christmas and the time was creeping ever closer to nine in the evening. The chances of someone actually being in there was hysterically low. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he had no other choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, damn it,” he snarled, and took a step. His side was </span>
  <em>
    <span>screaming </span>
  </em>
  <span>now, hot tears coming to his eyes. The rain washed them away, beating him down from above. The entire fucking heavens had decided to open up and shit on him that night, hadn’t they? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clenching his jaw, Jack staggered several steps forward. Almost there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, and he never did understand how, he mustered the strength and willpower to walk fifty meters with a bullet wound in his side leaking blood. He collapsed to his knees at the gray door of the clinic. The shock jarred the wound, sending a new flare of agony ripping through his body. He let out a grunt of pain and reached out with his hand. He smashed his fist against the doorbell and heard the chime inside. God, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’d never prayed a day in his life, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>please, </span>
  </em>
  <span>let someone be in there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack waited, slumped against the guardrail with the rain pouring down on him, for a moment that could have lasted an eternity. He heard no steps from inside. He was going to die here, on the doorstep of an empty clinic. How pathetic. Wilson would kick his ass if he was with him, he thought hazily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Wilson was dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A single spray of arterial blood, the glint of an unsheathed knife, and a scowling face. The images of the fight he’d just been in and lost spectacularly flashed through his mind as he lay against the guardrail, the cold metal digging into his back but keeping him from keeling over entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been so stupid to get involved, he realized. So what if Wilson had a grudge against some guy from downtown? It wasn’t his fight. But when Wilson had asked around, looking for a second, he’d volunteered. Wilson had the biggest fucking arms Jack had ever seen. There was no way he’d lose, not to some skinny rat from the other side of the city. But the wanker had brought three buddies of his, and while he killed Wilson with his knife, Jack had gotten shot and left for dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of the clinic door opening interrupted his disjointed thoughts and he turned his head, blinking at the sudden brightness. A woman with curly hair pulled back into a ponytail locked eyes with him, dark chocolate gaze wide. “Shit,” she cursed, bending down. She called over her shoulder. “Lisa!” she yelled. “Get everything back out!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wounds?” the woman asked, turning back to him. Her pleasant face was crumpled into an assessing frown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Side,” Jack groaned, the words taking the last of his strength. When she picked him up—damn, she was strong—she accidentally jostled the bullet wound. The pain rushed through him, stealing all his breath in a flash, and Jack finally let himself fall unconscious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He woke up what could have been hours or days later, blinking back to awareness with a groan. Sunlight, bright and welcoming, streamed in through a window to his left. He was lying in a cot and his right leg was in a plaster cast, for some reason, and the burning agony in his side had dulled to an ache. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opened slowly, and the women who had opened the door came in. Her hair was still in a ponytail, but she looked far less harried than she had before. Her face was more relaxed, and she smiled at him. “Good morning,” she greeted, and Jack slumped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning,” he replied quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She walked closer, adjusting her pink plastic gloves. “Does anything hurt?” she asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Just my side,” said Jack, and she nodded. The next few minutes were spent watching the woman, as she examined his leg briefly before pulling down his blanket. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, he realized. She must have had to cut it off of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman unwrapped his side with a firm, experienced hand, and frowned at his wound. “One mo,” she said, turning away. “Don’t move.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did as she said, far too tired to even contemplate disobeying her orders, and stared at the creamy ceiling. His head felt empty and every part of him felt numb, except for the persistent ache. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman came back fairly quickly and applied something to his side. She wrapped the wound again with fresh bandages, then turned to a cabinet. She took a bottle out and pulled off her gloves. She put them in a rubbish bin before tipping out a couple pills and handing them to Jack. She pushed a glass of water at him. “Swallow those. They’re painkillers. Can you drink?” she asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded and took the pills, then gulped down the rest of the water. He suddenly felt incredibly thirsty. “Can I get some more water, ma’am?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman nodded briskly, taking the glass from him and bringing it back a few minutes later. He downed that too, then put the glass on the small table at his side. “Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse, and the woman shrugged. “It’s my job,” she said, smiling at him. “Are you up to talking, or would you prefer I came back later?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded. “My name is Dr. Anna Granger. You’re incredibly lucky I stayed in late to do paperwork, you know. Otherwise you would have died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I figured,” he murmured. “You can call me Jack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack,” Dr. Granger said easily, not batting an eye at the omission of his surname. “You’ve got 35 stitches. Thankfully, the bullet that did </span>
  <em>
    <span>that,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she gestured at his bandaged side, “passed straight through, so I didn’t have to dig shrapnel out of your abdomen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack winced. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Thank you, for fixing me up and all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Granger smiled again. “It’s my job,” she repeated, and Jack pressed his lips together. He took a breath. “How much do I owe you?” he asked, fearing the answer. Surgeries out of the hospital were fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>expensive, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he wouldn’t be in so much trouble if he had that kind of money just lying around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Granger waved a dismissive hand at him, delicate fingers catching the streams of sunshine. “You’re fine,” she said dismissively. “Patching up gangsters is my side job, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack didn’t quite sigh in relief, but he definitely felt a weight come off of his shoulders. “Thank you,” he repeated, and Dr. Granger rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome,” she said finally. She gave him a once over, sharp eyes critical and assessing. “You’re currently getting nutrients from the drip,” she said, nodding at the IV Jack just realized he was hooked up to. “No solids for a few days. I’ll be back soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack nodded gratefully, and the woman left the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“L’ange,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he murmured. He didn’t know much French, though his father had tried to teach him the language. It was the one phrase he remembered from his hazy childhood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>L’ange.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Angel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack knew Anna Granger because she was a legend in the seedier corners of London. When one led a life like he did, a life like Wilson and Gabberd and Jameson, one was bound to get injured. And in his line of work, getting treatment at a public hospital was entirely out of the question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was why </span>
  <em>
    <span>l’ange </span>
  </em>
  <span>was so revered. She treated everyone, regardless of who they were, and according to the half-whispered stories Jack had heard, rarely charged. Her clinic was neutral ground, strictly enforced by both her reputation and the threat of retaliation from the other gangs. It was where you came if you got into trouble, and Jack had spent his whole life in and out of various trouble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know, of course, that Anna Granger had a daughter. Hermione was kept strictly out of the clinic whenever there was an...unofficial...patient. He didn’t know that Anna assumed her daughter was sensible enough to keep well away from locked doors. He didn’t know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he was surprised when a knock came at the door a day later. “Come in,” he said, raising his voice slightly. The door opened, and in walked a little girl with bushy brown hair frizzed around her face in a cloud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’re you?” he asked, immediately suspicious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Hermione,” she said primly, and walked closer. Jack estimated that she was about seven or eight, maybe nine. She looked a little bit like his younger sister because of the buckteeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatcha doing here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exploring,” Hermione replied, beaming. “Mum’s out for groceries. She’s probably cooking for you, since you’re all injured.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you even supposed to be in here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack watched as Hermione’s pudgy face fell into a frown. She walked to the side of the room and leaned against the wall, looking out of the window. “No,” she said finally. “Mum’ll be mad if she sees me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should probably leave,” Jack said, thinking himself perfectly reasonable, and Hermione had the gall to huff at him. She opened her mouth to reply, then saw that his glass of water was half empty. She walked over, took his glass, and left without a word. She brought it back a minute later, filled, and set it gently onto his nightstand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” he murmured, and Hermione nodded. She left the room after that, closing the door softly behind her. He had watched her go with a fond expression on his face. Dr. Granger had a little angel helper, then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t see Hermione again before he was discharged and Anna didn’t mention her at all. Still, he knew enough not to say anything about her to the others. His stories of </span>
  <em>
    <span>l’ange </span>
  </em>
  <span>never made any mention of a daughter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[Hermione, nineteen and already exhausted, sits in a chair on the balcony of her hotel room.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tipped her head up to the sky until her vision was swamped by the bright, clear blue. In every direction, all she could see was the endless sky. Beyond that, the stars and planets twirled in their dance, having begun their waltz at the beginning of time. She knew that the centaurs could read that dance. She knew that the switching of partners were carefully choreographed, as were ever spin and dip. The universe was made of tiny adjustments and large movements but she could not see any of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the face of all that, she thought, was there truly even a point to anything she did? The lives of humans, whether they were wizard, ability-user, or muggle, seemed so terribly insignificant in the face of the endless sky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was violin music playing down in the street, slow and mournful. She listened to the song for several long moments before letting out a long sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m doing this to create a better world,” she murmured. “Tear down the old, bit by bit. Build the new one on its ashes. But then I have to ask myself—is it even my place?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The person coming up behind her paused. They hadn’t thought she’d noticed them? Foolish. Whoever had trained them had done a bad job, if they couldn’t even be taught basic stealth. She had far better situational awareness than that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The music slowed further, and quieted. Whoever was playing had finished their song. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione tilted her head, still staring up at the blue Yokohama sky. “It’s probably not,” she admitted, eyes half-lidded. “But I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t at least try.” With that, she jerked violently to the side. A spell shot past her face, bright red with hostile intent, and out into the late afternoon. Her hand was already on her wand as she rolled into a crouch, facing the intruder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a British wizard, definitely. With that dueling stance, he’d probably been trained as a Hitwizard. Upright, ready to pursue if need be. Dark eyes were blown wide in surprise and his wand arm was out. “Surrender,” he growled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione scoffed and whipped her wand into a spell chain. A stunner, a binding spell, and a tripping jinx, all in quick succession. The man dodged fairly quickly, though he ended up tripping on a bump in the carpet and over correcting. With that brief half second of surprise, Hermione had darted forward to grab Harry’s pistol off the table. She shot him once in the shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Hitwizard shouted in surprise and pain, falling to one knee. She watched as he grit his teeth, raising his wand again to point at her. Such determination. She could admire the reckless bravery, but at the same time, it made him an idiot. Hermione shook her head and shot him again, in the knee he was bracing himself with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man let out a gasp of pain. His face slackened and the wand fell out of his grip, rolling underneath the bed where he couldn't easily retrieve it. His eyes were glassy with pain and he fell over, blood leaking onto the carpet in a bright crimson spill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione walked over, pistol still out in front of her. She nudged him with her boot. “Who sent you?” she asked sharply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mudblood bitch,” he spat, and Hermione felt her ire rising. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t antagonize a mudblood bitch with a gun,” she replied, her tone easy. Her face crumpled into a scowl. “I’ll ask nicely again. Who sent you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man was looking more and more out of it by the second, but he had the presence of mind to open his mouth one more time. “Go to hell,” he spat, before falling unconscious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione kept the pistol trained on him for a few more seconds, just to make sure he wasn’t faking, before letting out another heavy sigh. She dropped the gun onto the bed and sent a quick binding spell at the man, keeping him silent, immobile, and tied up. She stopped his bleeding and sent him into stasis with another quick spell, because a dead body was going to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Especially since she still had unfinished business in Yokohama. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d deal with him whenever Harry got back. For now, she needed to clean up the hotel room so the room service didn’t get all suspicious. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There's an oblique Naruto reference in this chapter :P</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Ango Sakaguchi Suffers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kunikida has an off-putting encounter, Ron flexes his detective skills, and Ango curses Natsume Soseki.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Chapter Three</b>
</h1><p>
  <span>“If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Henry V</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[The next morning dawns bright and clear. The Yokohama trains are running as they always are. As he does every morning, Kunikida boards a train to the Detective Agency offices. He is early, for once, and is enjoying the feeling of not needing to rush.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kunikida boarded the train after paying for his ticket, his bag clutched in his left hand. In his right was his ever-present notebook with the kanji for “Ideal” scrawled onto the front cover. He checked his schedule, and then his watch. He was several minutes earlier than usual, which meant the train must have also been earlier than usual. It was a nice change of pace, he reflected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because it was the morning, most of the seats were filled. It didn’t bother him—this was routine. He put his notebook into his bag and held onto one of the poles. To his left was a young woman who looked vaguely foreign. She had curly brown hair in a cloud about her face, though it didn’t look </span>
  <em>
    <span>messy. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She had a faraway look in her eyes and carried a large bag of her own.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t pay very much attention to her. He had a meeting with the chief of police today and he didn’t want to be late for that, so he was brainstorming ways to keep Dazai occupied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Kunikida was lucky, Dazai would be late to come to work today. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to spend an hour fishing the bastard out of a river. Really, he didn’t understand why Atsushi wasn’t the one sent to retrieve him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me,” said a quiet voice. He looked over at the woman next to him. She was holding his notebook. “You dropped this,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he said, surprised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could have sworn he’d zipped up his bag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman tilted her head, examining the cover of the notebook before handing it over. “I’m still learning to read Japanese,” she said. “I’m sorry for asking, but what do the kanji on the front mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A prickle of anxiety went up Kunikida’s spine. He didn’t know why, but something about her made him deeply uneasy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushed up his glasses and took the notebook. “Ideal,” he said, flipping it open. “I keep all my schedules in my notebook, and I see it as my guide to living.” He turned the pages until he came to his dossier on known Port Mafia members and notable criminals, scanning through the descriptions as he spoke. He’d never seen her before, and he trusted his memory, but perhaps he was wrong?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman raised her eyebrows. “Ideal,” she repeated, sounding out the word slowly. “Sticking by ideals seems like a difficult way to live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunikida bristled instinctively before telling himself to relax. The woman—about 1.5 meters tall, curly brown hair, dark eyes, European in features—was not someone in his notebook listed as a person of interest. Just a tourist on the train, he told himself. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But if I didn’t, I’d just be a hypocrite. And they’ve gotten me out of rough places in the past.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was true enough, though Kunikida was sure she’d assume he meant emotionally rough. Not life-or-death situations where his existence hung by a thread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman made a humming noise. “But what if you had to do something completely against what you stand for? Do your ideals bend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunikida thought about the question for a long moment. It was a strange question to ask someone you barely knew, and a strange conversation to be had on a train. But it was a question he’d asked himself many times in the past. So he figured, then, he could answer it now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes,” he said. “But they stand firm in the end.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman nodded. “Admirable,” she said, and smiled ruefully. “I wish I could say the same. I feel like a hypocrite almost every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunikida found himself intrigued. His stop wasn’t for several minutes yet, and he saw no harm in engaging this peculiar woman in conversation. Even though his danger-sense hadn’t stopped prickling since she’d handed him his notebook. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyebrows furrowed. Contact poison, maybe? But he felt completely fine. She looked harmless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which, to be truthful, worried him even more. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If she’s talking to me,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he reasoned, she can’t go after any of the other passengers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And I can defend myself.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I find that when one feels like a hypocrite, one usually is,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman looked startled for a moment before laughing softly. “Too true,” she agreed, and rested her head against the pole she held onto. Her gaze was far away again, like she was seeing something in her mind rather than what was in front of her. “Mr. Kunikida, is it? On the back of your notebook?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunikida nodded, watching her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked at him then, dark gaze focused. He found himself startled by the intensity of her stare as she locked eyes with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It came to him in a flash. The reason this woman in front of him made him so uncomfortable, made his heart rate spike like he was about to enter a fight. Her eyes looked like Dazai’s. Maybe not as flat and cold, but nearly as calculating. But where Dazai’s were filled with apathy, even when his life was in danger, hers burned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If...if I’m a hypocrite because I need to be, because no one else will do what needs to be done, then am I really a hypocrite, Mr. Kunikida?” she asked, locking eyes with him. He was utterly taken aback by the question and adjusted his glasses, stalling for time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she betrays her own ideals because it’s necessary, is she really betraying her ideals?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought for a second. “I suppose it depends on what your ideals are,” he said finally, and the woman nodded. “I think so too,” she said, and the train smoothly slid into the station. She peered at the electronic sign. “This is my stop,” she said, flashing him a grin. “Thank you, Mr. Kunikida!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, she was gone. Kunikida was left feeling strangely numb, like the feeling you get after you forget there isn’t another step at the top of the staircase and the adrenaline dissipates. He gripped the pole and let the cool metal ground him. What a strange person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few stops later and he got off the train, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The walk to the Detective Agency offices was a short one, and he found himself pushing open the door to the ground-level cafe in minutes. He greeted the staff there before heading up the stairs. He checked kis watch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still a few minutes early. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a long sigh, he opened the door to the office, ready for someone to tell him that Dazai had managed to get himself stuck in some compromising position and he was the only person who could remove him. But the clerks greeted him as they usually did, and as usual, both the President and Yosano-sensei were nowhere to be found. Atsushi was already at his desk, going through paperwork with a disgruntled expression. Tanizaki was poking at a couple books on the shelf, and Ranpo was eating candy with his eyes mostly closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a normal day, then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then he noticed Dazai, sitting at his desk and staring out the window. There was an uncharacteristically thoughtful expression on his face, which slipped off as soon as he saw Kunikida. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dazai sprang to his feet and rushed over, a knowing smile on his face. “Kunikida!” he sang, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “I’ve got some interesting news!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunikida grit his teeth. “Spit it out, Dazai,” he grumbled, setting his bag down at his desk and taking a seat. Dazai scuttled closer, grin widening. “It seems the Port Mafia is making deals with foreigners!” he chirped, and showed Kunikida a picture. He let out a startled sound and felt his stomach drop. It was a grainy photo, taken at a distance and zoomed in. “Tanizaki took it yesterday,” Dazai said gleefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The photo was of Higuchi Ichiyo, a known member of the Port Mafia. She was walking into a building and, following behind her, was a woman with dark, curly hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dazai raised an eyebrow. “Do you recognize her?” he asked, tilting his head curiously, and Kunikida nodded. “She was on the train this morning,” Kunikida muttered. “We had an odd conversation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you catch her name? All we have are a couple photos of her, but they’re all from the back.” Dazai brandished them between his knobby fingers, and sure enough, they were all of the same woman. Though none of them showed her face, Kunikida was sure it was the woman on the train. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t,” Kunikida admitted, scowling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dazai’s face fell. “Shame,” he said. “She seemed so familiar, too.” He slumped into his own chair and leaned back, resting his head on his arms. “Did you notice anything interesting about her, Kunikida?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her eyes almost look like yours, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wanted to say, but that was illogical at best and silly at worst. So instead, he said, “She has a British accent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dazai didn’t turn his head, but Kunikida had been his work partner long enough to know when he was surprised. A slight stiffending in his shoulders, a hitch in his voice. A change in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” said Dazai, and quickly changed the subject to prattling about different mushroom varieties and how he was sure he’d found the right one to off himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunikida tuned him out, still staring at the photos Dazai had laid on his desk. So the lazy bastard did know who she was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dazai.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man turned, his speech about one particular species of mushroom cut off mid-word. Kunikida regarded him with a frown. “Is she a threat?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dazai waited several heartbeats, his eyes as cold as ever. “Not to us,” he said then, and went back to talking about mushrooms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunikida wasn’t the only person in the room to have picked up on Dazai’s strange behavior. Atsushi was watching the two of them out of the corner of his eye, a thoughtful frown on his face. He was probably trying to make sure his eavesdropping wasn’t noticed, but Kunikida was almost always on high alert. The kid had a few more years to go before he could skate beneath the radar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[In Britain, Ronald Weasley receives a call. He’s sitting at his desk in the Misuse of Magical Artifacts division of the ministry, sorting through a pile of reports. The call comes to his personal cell phone, warded so magic didn’t short it out completely. He picks up on the second ring.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Harry,” he said, smiling a little. “How’ve you been, mate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry sounded exhausted on the other end of the phone. “Peachy,” he said. “I only got attacked in an alleyway and nearly stabbed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You better have given as good as you got,” said Ron. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could almost hear his best friend rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, that’s not the concerning part. Hermione was also attacked by a Hitwizard. I sent a text with his picture. Think you can dig up some information? We don’t know who sent him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is she okay?” Ron asked, concerned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess that tells me where your priorities lie,” Harry said, dry as a desert. “She’s fine. Not even a scratch. The poor Hitwizard got shot in the shoulder and the knee, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pity,” said Ron, equally dry. “I’ll see what I can do. Stay safe, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll do our best.” Then Harry hung up, and Ron checked his texts. Sure enough, there was a picture of a middle-aged man with sandy brown hair. He was slightly balding and had dark brown eyes, with a mole on his left cheek. He looked unremarkable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Definitely a Hitwizard, then, Ron thought. He did paperwork for another hour, biding his time until lunch. Around noon, he said his goodbyes to the secretaries at the front, and meandered into the lift. They’d assume he was going to the ministry cafeteria. Instead, he took the lift to the archives room, which had all the profiles of ministry workers dating back hundreds of years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walked through the halls to the archives, greeting coworkers as he went. He knew what they thought of him. Arthur Weasley’s dutiful son. Probably a little cracked, the same way his father was, but harmless. Just another paper pusher in the bowels of the ministry machine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He liked it that way, at least for now. The burning need for recognition that he’d carefully nurtured since his first year at Hogwarts had long since dimmed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron opened the door to the archives. It was a dusty place, despite the ventilation charms. “Mr. Weasley,” said the receptionist. He was an older man, with greying hair and a goatee. He pushed up his spectacles and flashed him a grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Delaney,” Ron said, nodding at him. “How’ve you been?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same old, same old,” said Delaney, shaking his head. “As you know, things don’t tend to change much down here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron shrugged. It was true enough. Down in the archives, between the stacks of dusty books, pamphlets, and scrolls, time hardly seemed to matter. You could enter in the morning and leave a minute later, feeling sure you’d spent an hour in there at the most. Or you could enter in the afternoon and come out to see the moon high in the sky. There were no windows, just a clock on the wall that never seemed to tell the correct time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I help you with anything?” Delaney asked, tapping his wizened fingers on a stack of books on his desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you point me in the direction of exotic curses?” Ron asked. “A new item came in from overseas. Apparently it was enchanted by a foreign wizard and sent over to wreak havoc among the muggles. We’re trying to identify whatever it’s been spelled with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like a nasty bit of business,” said Delaney, whistling. He gestured to his left. “Exotic curses should be in that section, across from the personnel archives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seems like an odd place to put it,” Ron noted, and Delaney sighed. “Someday, someone’ll approve my request to send some interns down here to organize everything rather than just file,” he said wistfully, and waved Ron on. Ron gave him a lazy salute and walked in the direction he’d gestured. He knew full well where the personnel archives were, considering how often he was down in the archives. He had also spent a month down in this room, filing as part of his internship. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Delaney’s memory wasn’t great, and Ron knew if asked, he would tell people that Ron was only down there to research exotic curses for a strange artifact that landed in his department. Nothing about him sniffing around old personnel records, which might tip off people that Ron wanted to steer very clear of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wandered through the stacks, the witchlights in their sconces casting a warm yellow glow. The air smelled like old parchment. He knew Hermione would spend hours down here, and probably would never come out, if she’d decided to work at the ministry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron’s feet made no sound on the soft carpet of the archives room. He meandered to the right stacks and began browsing through the right folders of paper. He was looking for Hitwizard profiles for the last few decades. When he grabbed them all, he had a pile of parchment almost half a foot tall. He sighed. The Hitwizard department tended to have a truly obnoxious number of washouts, and they would all be recorded and given profiles. What a pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost an hour of sorting, discarding every single one that contained a picture that didn’t match, left Ron with five profiles. Three didn’t have pictures, but the description could have applied to the one Harry sent him over text. The other two did have pictures that could have been younger versions of the man in the photo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One with a picture and one without described men that would be entirely the wrong age, and so he discarded those. He was left with three profiles. Quickly, he snapped photos of them and sent them to Harry. Then he put all the profiles back on the shelf, careful to separate them. He left the stacks, passing by the receptionist desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you find what you were looking for?” Delaney asked, polishing his spectacles. Ron laughed sheepishly and grinned. “Nope,” he said. “I’m probably going to ask one of the other departments for help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go talk to Marzie Hopkins,” Delaney advised. “Her sister’s a cursebreaker and might be able to help you out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will do,” said Ron, ducking out with a thanks and a wave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back at his desk soon after with a new pile of paperwork waiting to be processed, Ron took out his phone again. He looked at the profiles he’d found, wondering which of them belonged to the man who’d had the absolute audacity to attack Hermione. Part of him wished he’d been there to cover her back and kick the man’s arse himself, but he knew she could handle a random Hitwizard. Still. It meant they had enemies in the ministry. And for them to know about their plans, they had to be highly placed. The most likely candidates would be the Minister himself, or his undersecretaries and advisors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next likely were highly placed people on the Wizengamot, to whom the undersecretaries owed a favor. The people in positions of power were all linked by black threads of blackmail and rumors, Ron knew, and in the ministry, there would always be people listening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clicked through the profiles, humming under his breath. None of them stood out to him, really. But just as he noticed an irregularity on one of the profiles, Harry sent a text. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s the second one. Who’s Miller? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron’s jaw clenched. So Harry had noticed it too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Undersecretary to the Minister. An old friend of Kingsley from his Auror days.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>On the second profile was a little note, buried in the “experience” section of the report. He’d been partnered with Auror Cynthia Miller on a mission that had ended with him being classified as missing in action for a long, unreported absence. He had, obviously, returned, but the incident was written off vaguely as “unforeseen complications”. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hermione says to investigate her, and not to drink too much Firewhisky, </span>
  </em>
  <span>came the text. Ron huffed a laugh. Of course she’d known he was planning on going home and taking a drink, he reflected ruefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Consider it done, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he typed back, then hesitated over the keyboard. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keep her safe, Harry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The reply came moments later, and Ron could hear Harry’s scathing tone. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Obviously.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron huffed a laugh. He pocketed the phone and started working through his paperwork, twirling a fountain pen absentmindedly between his fingers. If he wanted to get anything done before he left today, he’d need to work fast. The life of a bureaucrat, he thought wryly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he knew it, the clock was winding down and his father clapped him on the shoulder. “Ready to head home?” his dad asked, smiling down at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron smiled. “Sure,” he agreed. “I just need to make a call first. Go on ahead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur Weasley shrugged. “You and your muggle felly-tone,” he said fondly. He ruffled Ron’s hair and began to walk away. “Don’t be too late, you hear?” he called over his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Ron shot back, and his father’s laughter trailed him out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron’s shoulders dropped into a slump and he sighed, rubbing at his face. His father didn’t know anything about what he was doing with Harry and Hermione, and Ron was very happy to keep it that way. As much as he adored his father—loved him for his quiet, enduring strength and in spite of all his quirks—he wouldn’t understand. Not this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  He flipped his phone open with another sigh. He scrolled through his contacts and sent out a single text. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mandy’s, 12:30? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He waited a moment, seeing if there would be a reply. To his surprise, there was one almost immediately after, dripping with disdain.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mandy’s, really? They water down their coffee. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron rolled his eyes and sent another text. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You shouldn’t be drinking coffee at noon. It’s bad for your health, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he said, referencing Hermione’s many, </span>
  <em>
    <span>many </span>
  </em>
  <span>lectures on the dangers of caffeine consumption.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Imagine drinking coffee in the morning, </span>
  </em>
  <span>came the derisive reply. Ron was about to repeat his request for a meeting when another text came in. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll be there, Weasley. Bring something good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron shook his head. Once a bastard, always a bastard, he thought to himself, tucking his phone back into his pocket. He slung his bag over his shoulder, ran a hand through his hair, and left the office. He made straight for the floo and, tossing a pinch of green powder in, yelled, “The Burrow!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was greeted by his mother, as usual, and ate dinner with an absent-minded expression. Something good? That could mean anything from a juicy rumor to a bottle of Firewhisky. He figured he’d play it safe and ended up nicking one of his mum’s apple tarts. He put it in a box, cast a hasty stasis charm, and went to sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[The next morning is cold and cloudy. Ron goes through the motions of an office worker as he usually does, but he leaves the ministry around 12:15 and heads to a muggle coffee shop.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mandy’s was a five minute walk from the ministry, small, and easily hidden. The slate grey storefront wasn’t particularly eye catching and most of the people who went there were regulars. Ron ducked inside with a smile at the cashier and took a seat at a booth in the back. It was his usual booth, one away from the corner with a nice view of the street and the sky. He was relieved to see that he had gotten there first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron checked his watch, noted that he was still early, and flipped open a newspaper that he kept in his pocket. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nineteen and already middle-aged, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought to himself, flicking through the pages with an affected disinterest. There was nothing in the paper that would be at all helpful to Harry’s investigation of the hitman hired on Hermione, but he went through the motions of reading it anyway. He grimaced when he got to the sports section and read a blurb about the Chudley Cannons losing rather spectacularly to the Wimbourne Wasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone slid into the booth in front of him with a sigh and a cloud of cigarette smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s even worse than drinking coffee in the afternoon,” Ron said dryly, and folded the newspaper away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I asked for your opinion, when?” Draco Malfoy shot back, taking a drag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever.” He slid the box of treacle tart at the man. “Your bribe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy cracked the lid open and raised an eyebrow. “Your mother’s cooking, I presume?” he said, giving Ron a look that very clearly told him what he was thinking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did say something good,” Ron said with a shrug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco put the box on the seat beside him without further comment and stubbed out his cigarette. “So. What trouble has the </span>
  <em>
    <span>illustrious </span>
  </em>
  <span>Golden Trio gotten themselves into?” he drawled, the cigarette vanishing with a flick of his pale fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron burst out laughing. “Is that a party trick you pull often?” he asked, guffawing. “Ooh, posh Draco Malfoy, he can do a wordless vanishing charm, how </span>
  <em>
    <span>sexy,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he mocked, affecting a high and girlish tone. The man in front of him, wearing a muggle business suit and with his blonde hair styled in such a way that probably took hours, let out a derisive sniff. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Draco Malfoy, and I’m going to die of lung cancer,” Ron sing-songed, and Malfoy’s expression darkened. “Did you need my help, or is this a social outing?” he hissed, and Ron chuckled one last time before getting serious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hermione’s currently overseas,” he admitted. It wasn’t a bit of information he wanted to leak, but it was necessary context. He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth, because Malfoy’s pale eyes narrowed. “Overseas,” he mused, and Ron made an assenting noise. The waiter came over then, a young man who was probably just out of university. “Welcome to Mandy’s,” he said pleasantly. “What can I get you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Black coffee,” Malfoy said sourly. “No sugar or cream. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do </span>
  </em>
  <span>try not to water it down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man looked taken aback, but swallowed and turned to Ron. “And you, sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t mind him,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “He’s grumpy because he hasn’t had his nap. Anyway, could you get me some decaf green tea?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man nodded, obviously relieved. “Will that be all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron nodded, and he turned around, almost fleeing. He gave Malfoy a look. “You don’t have to be an arse,” he said reprovingly, and Malfoy snorted. “I have to be polite to my mother and all the sycophants she’s friends with. I’m not going to waste my energy on a </span>
  <em>
    <span>waiter.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a prick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy shrugged. “I’ve come to terms with it,” he said easily, and Ron sighed. The waiter came with their orders a few tense minutes later, scurrying away as soon as he set the drinks down. Ron took a sip of his tea and closed his eyes for a half-second longer than he needed to for a blink. Malfoy gulped down his coffee like a desperate man, before making a disgusted face. “I told him not to water it down,” he grumbled, but took another obnoxious gulp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron set down his tea. “Hermione was attacked by a British Hitwizard yesterday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy frowned. “You’ve got a leak,” he said, and Ron nodded. He placed a copy of the man’s profile on top of the table, tapping it. Malfoy gave it a once over and sipped more sedately at his coffee. He, too, immediately noticed the slight anomaly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cynthia Miller,” he murmured. “Halfblood undersecretary to the minister of magic. Spotless record in the Auror corps, nothing out of the ordinary, but nothing special either. If I remember correctly, she graduated Hogwarts with average marks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words echoed in Ron’s mind. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing special. Average. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All words that set off all his alarm bells. “She’s close with Kingsley,” Ron said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were Auror partners. It’s a given,” said Malfoy, drumming his fingers on the table. “You should know that, Weasley. I don’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>work </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the ministry, come on now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Ron said mildly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Make me,” Malfoy shot back, and Ron rolled his eyes. “I need to know the details of the mission she and this guy went MIA on,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>work </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the ministry,” Malfoy repeated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron’s smile was dagger-sharp. “Miller's been in politics longer than Kingsley,” Ron said. He hated this whole talking-around-your-actual-point business that Hermione was so fond of. All the pretentious metaphors, all the dodgy questions. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn, </span>
  </em>
  <span>if it wasn’t effective putting people off-balance. Especially Malfoy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy leaned back and tilted his head expectantly, so Ron continued. “I looked into her background this morning. She left the Auror corps before him, shadowed some prominent Wizengamot members. One of whom was your father.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy stiffened. “My father,” he said bitterly, “is dead, Weasley. What’s your point?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron almost felt sorry for bringing it up, but he needed the information. Hermione was counting on him. “He must have kept records,” he pressed. “I don’t have access to Auror files. The only information I have on Miller is entirely public information.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sanitized and useless,” Malfoy sneered, and Ron, for once, agreed. He nodded, watching Malfoy carefully. The other man gritted his teeth and stood in one sharp motion. “You’re paying for my coffee,” Malfoy said curtly, and turned around to leave. “But. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always a pleasure,” Ron called after him, and watched Malfoy’s fist clenched. So easy to rile up, that man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what an odd thing it was, that he could sit down in a wholly muggle restaurant and have a quasi-civil conversation with Draco Malfoy, of all people. Harry had told them, in great detail, about his brief fight with Malfoy during the Massacre. Ron remembered the vicious satisfaction he’d felt that Malfoy had been beaten so handily, and seen the same in Hermione’s face. But she hid it a little better, since she was Hermione. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But during their last year at Hogwarts, Malfoy hadn’t seemed to have many friends. Where Slytherin house had once rallied around him, they now pushed him to the outside of any interactions. He sat at the end of the table, walked alone to class, and the only person who would sit next to him during lectures was Theodore Nott. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron remembered Hermione eyeing him speculatively one morning and how he’d groaned. “Hey, Hermione, are we recruiting already?” he asked, knowing it was a shot in the dark. She gave him a look and he immediately was taken aback. “I was taking the piss,” he said weakly, and Hermione rolled her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’d be a valuable asset,” she said, prim and proper as ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t our whole platform everything he’s against?” Ron asked, gobsmacked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione shrugged. “Who says we can’t change our platform a little?” came the rejoinder, and Harry laughed into his toast. “Give it up, Ron,” his best mate said. “Looks like she’s already decided.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Noooo,” Ron moaned. Harry patted him on the back and gave him another sausage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so they had, in the end, recruited Malfoy. With little dropped hints and carefully staged confrontations, they’d cajoled him into a clandestine meeting in the Room of Requirement. He’d ultimately been persuaded when Hermione mentioned, offhandedly, that the new world she was building would have a place for him near the top.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a fool,” he’d sneered. “I was promised the same things, as was my father.” His voice hitched on the last word, and Hermione shrugged. “I’m not Voldemort,” she said, and Ron watched as Malfoy flinched violently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How am I supposed to trust that?” he snapped, and Hermione smiled at him. Her smile was dark and knowing, and certainly dangerous. “I’m giving you the choice, aren’t I?” she pointed out, and Malfoy’s shoulders slumped. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he said, and it sounded vaguely like he was quoting something. Hermione’s smile widened. “Indeed,” she said, and that was when Ron knew she’d won. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron sipped at his slowly cooling tea and looked out at the grey London afternoon. On a chessboard, he supposed Hermione was the King. Harry, the Queen, the most versatile piece who went on the offensive. Malfoy, the Knight, who moved in a strange pattern but yet managed to get all over the board. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And who was he, in that metaphor? Perhaps the Rook, who moved in predictable straight lines. To an outsider, certainly. But he felt that he was more of a Bishop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[In another coffee shop, this one on the other side of the globe, two people sip on tea and eye each other like circling wolves. Hermione, having gotten off the train half an hour ago, is drinking Earl Grey. She is poised as ever, though her heart beats in her throat. Ango Sakaguchi sits in front of her with bags under his eyes and a cup of green tea in his hand.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ango took a drink, feeling the tiredness in his bones with every movement he made. He wasn’t even thirty, but he felt his job slowly draining the life out of him. He dreaded the day he woke up and saw grey hair in the mirror, honestly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Ms. Granger,” he said, and watched as the young woman in front of him smiled. “Mr. Sakaguchi,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “You requested this meeting for a reason, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. She was going on the offensive, then. Ango adjusted his glasses. “Yes,” he replied. “I’d like to be direct here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger nodded. “That would be best,” she agreed, and Ango inhaled. Something about her just put him on edge. He couldn’t pinpoint it—she had no weapons concealed on her person and she was small enough that even he could overpower her if she lunged across the table. But the crackling intelligence in her eyes….</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, that couldn’t be it. He’d met many fiercely intelligent people in his line of work, all of them dangerous in their own right, but not like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took another breath. “Put plainly, Ms. Granger. Are you a threat to Japan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger’s brown eyes widened in surprise. But rather than being put on the defensive, she laughed softly. “A threat to Japan, Mr. Sakaguchi? How quaint.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ango tried not the bristle, but from the glint of delight he could read from her, he hadn’t succeeded. She continued with a wave of her hand. “Of course not. I’ve no designs on your beautiful country.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forgive me if I can’t take you at your word,” Ango replied dryly. He took a sip from his cup before reaching into his pocket slowly. She tracked the movement, obviously wary, but all he pulled out were a few photos. He laid them on the table in front of him and laced his fingers together. “You were seen in the company of a known Port Mafia operative yesterday, Ms. Granger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger examined the photos for a moment before taking another sip of tea. Her eyes flashed over the lip of the cup, dangerous and calculating. “A means to an end, Mr. Sakaguchi,” she murmured, tapping the photos. “Besides. They do have a license to operate legally in Yokohama, do they not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that was classified information. He opened his mouth to deflect, perhaps change the subject, but she beat him to it. “It was an educated guess,” she told him, setting the teacup down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you could walk me through that </span>
  <em>
    <span>educated </span>
  </em>
  <span>guess, Ms. Granger, it would be greatly appreciated,” said Ango, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fingers. Memories of Osamu Dazai’s own “educated guesses” flashed through his mind, putting him further on edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger smiled at him again, delighted. “Public records, I assume, were scrubbed,” she said idly. “Or perhaps there was never any mention at all. But what they were not scrubbed of were the reported extent of the Port Mafia’s activities. And the newspapers couldn’t possibly catch everything, so the true scope of their reach is likely much larger.” She sipped at her tea, swirling it gently. “There’s no reason for the Japanese government to let them run amok the way they do,” she said. “No lack of manpower or motive, really. So the only answer, logically, is that they’re unable to for legal reasons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger made eye contact and put her teacup down. “I heard rumors of the existence of permit, Mr. Sakaguchi. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>inō kaigyō kyoka-shō, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I believe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ango sighed and broke her gaze, closing his eyes to drink from his cup. “The Gifted Business Permit,” he said. “It does, indeed, exist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger sat back in her seat, looking like a cat who had gotten into the cream. “How interesting,” she replied, and took a sip of her tea. “You have nothing to fear from me, and neither does your government. My interests are confined to Britain, </span>
  <em>
    <span>magical </span>
  </em>
  <span>Britain, and I have no ambition overseas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet you’re in Yokohama,” Ango shot back, unwilling to let this woman walk all over him during this parlay. He didn’t startle at the mention of magical Britain, having been informed of their existence by sheer virtue of being fairly high up in the Special Abilities Division. He knew she had noticed and clocked a lack of a response, though her next move, he didn’t know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she agreed. “I am in Yokohama.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of them, circling each other with all the politeness of two people who could not back down, regarded each other silently for several seconds. The tension was broken by a low hum in the air, reminiscent of an activating ability. Ango whipped to face the source of the disturbance, and saw Granger frown out of the corner of his eye. She had a stick in her hand in half a second, though it was lowered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a quiet popping noise, a man sitting in a chair appeared at their table. He was tall, blonde, and fairly well-dressed. He had an expression of carefully curated apathy on his pale face. “Put the wand away, Granger,” he said in English, “it’s just me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger’s jaw visibly clenched and she flicked her wrist, sending the wand shooting back up her sleeve. “You’re going to get arrested for illegal Portkeying,” she said curtly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The unknown man glanced around, lazy and slow. “Screens,” he pointed out, gesturing at the bamboo screens around their booth. “Nobody saw a thing except for him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger rolled her eyes and turned to Ango. “Draco Malfoy, this is Ango Sakaguchi. Ango Sakaguchi, Draco Malfoy. I made the grave mistake of inviting him to be my subordinate,” she said in Japanese.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ango smiled thinly. “English is fine, Ms. Granger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded once and addressed Malfoy with a narrow frown. “You can still get arrested,” she told him, and Malfoy gave her an insouciant shrug. “Worst things have happened,” he drawled. “Being a Death Eater is up there. My girlfriend leaving me for my best mate. Getting the roof ripped off my family house by some ginger maniac with a Napoleon complex. Compared to all that, getting arrested seems like rather small change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A ginger maniac with a Napoleon complex?” Ango cut in, unease creeping up his spine. Malfoy slid his pale grey eyes to him. “And an asshole with bandages,” he added. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ango gritted his teeth. What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>had Double Black been doing in Britain, terrorizing wizards? He knew that both of them had been absent from Japan for a few months, three years ago, though the division hadn’t actually found out what they’d been doing. He glared down at his teacup tiredly. It was a rather pretty amber color. Perhaps he could pretend it was alcohol. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger regarded him with a curious glint in her dark eyes. “You didn’t know?” she asked, sounding almost surprised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Know what?” Ango muttered, adjusting his glasses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled at him then, a devil in a woman’s clothes. “Osamu Dazai and Chuuya Nakahara were both contracted by my late headmaster to run a few errands for him,” she said, taking a sip of tea. Her composure was firmly back in place and Ango’s was rattled. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Damn. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The information disparity tipped the scales decidedly in her favor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy was looking at him with an expression akin to pity. “As amusing as this is to watch,” he said finally, “I’ve information for you, Granger, that I didn’t want to trust to your muggle devices.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger raised an eyebrow and drained the last of her tea with a sigh. “In front of Mr. Sakaguchi, Malfoy? I assumed you had greater tact than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You overestimate me,” Malfoy deadpanned. He ran a hand through his blonde hair with an impatient air. “Regardless, I think he’ll want to hear this. Government worker, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ango adjusted his glasses slightly. “Indeed,” he said dryly. “What gave it away?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy chucked. “The despair,” he replied, and a muscle twitched in Ango’s eyebrow. Malfoy turned to Granger. “Anyway. That secretary you had Weasley and I investigate? She has a sister.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hardly see how that’s relevant,” Granger said, tapping her fingers impatiently on the table. Her manicured nails made a sharp clicking noise as she drummed, and the sound irritated Ango to no end. Tsujimura did that too, and it drove him absolutely nuts in the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Normally, it wouldn’t be. But her sister’s name is Ariadne Miller.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ango stiffened and cursed himself for it immediately after, though the damage had already been done. The motion didn’t go unnoticed by the other two. Granger tilted her head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell,” she admitted. “You seem to be familiar with her, Mr. Sakaguchi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re acquainted, if not personally. She’s closely associated with a woman named Agatha Christie,” Ango replied. Under ideal circumstances, he wouldn’t have told this strange, foreign woman. But she had tipped him off about Double Black’s involvement in Britain, and so he supposed he could afford to give up a little information in return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granger looked surprised for a moment, her unglossed lips parted slightly and her oddly familiar eyes blown wide. But then she tipped her head back and laughed, sounding utterly delighted. “So, she’s making her move,” she said, and glanced over at her subordinate. “My thanks, Malfoy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy grinned at her, sudden and sharp. Ango watched with a feeling akin to dread as Granger got up and placed some money on the table. “Thanks ever so much for the tête-à-tête, Mr. Sakaguchi,” she said, and gave him a mock salute. “You know how to contact me.” With that, she left the store, Malfoy following behind her. He turned his head at the last moment to give Ango a pitying look before walking out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ango drained the last of his tea in a single gulp before scrubbing a hand over his face. Someday, he promised himself, he would corner Natsume Soseki and give him a piece of his mind. Tripartite system aside, he was going to die of self deprivation and overwork before ever managing to retire from working for the government. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who was he kidding, he thought bitterly. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>the government at this point. He left some money on the table as well and left the store. He was going to walk to a bar and get absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasted, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he decided. He could afford to call in sick one day and let Tsujimura try to run the place for once. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'd feel bad for Ango, but this is the karmic balance for all the suffering Severus endured three years in fic-time ago. Also, if any of you watch K, Draco's personality is kinda inspired by Fushimi's...it's the saltiness, I think.</p><p>8/6/20 Changed a couple names for plot purposes.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. It's Not a Pleasant Thing, Confrontation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry gets jumped, Hermione is regretful, and the Black Lizard bullies Tachihara.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Chapter Four</b>
</h1><p>
  <span>“The fire-eyed maid of smoky war</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All hot and bleeding will we offer them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Henry VI pt 1</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[Another day dawns on Yokohama, bright and clear. The sky is as blue as ever. Harry wakes up to sunlight on his face and Hermione snoring in the next bed over. Once she wakes up, he turns to her.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“G’morn, ‘Mione,” Harry said, absentmindedly twirling his wand in one hand. Hermione looked over at him and sighed. “What’s up?” she asked, her dark eyes tired. Was she getting enough sleep? She looked...worn out, somehow. She’d had a meeting with someone from the government, Harry knew, but had it been </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>draining? According to her, all he’d wanted to know was if she was a threat to Japan, and another than that, nothing important had occurred. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I’m going to go for a walk,” he said finally, and she lifted an eyebrow at him “Is that really the best idea, considering last time you went for a walk, you got jumped?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry winced and stopped twirling his wand. “I’ll...bring my pistol this time?” Though, that might not do much good against the man who had ambushed him. He’d been disarmed startlingly quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione rolled her eyes and hopped out of her bed, tossing her wild mane of hair into a messy bun on top of her head with a flick of her wrist. She rummaged through the fridge and, strangely, pulled out a piece of paper. She scanned it, frowning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry walked over, tucking his wand into his back pocket as he always did, and peered over her shoulder. “Job at 12, we’ll pick you up,” he read, and glanced at his best friend sidelong. “Mafia business, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione folded the note and put it into a pocket of her pajamas. “Looks like it. They probably want to know if I’m reliable,” she muttered, and took some clothes out of her suitcase. “I’m going to shower. Don’t get yourself killed, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry laughed. “Isn’t that what I’m best at?” he said, his tone affectionate and teasing. He loved this woman like a sister, honestly, but she could trust him not to get himself murdered by himself. Hermione swatted at him with her hand as she walked into the bathroom. “Just don’t!” she said, and closed the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, mom,” Harry said, loudly enough for her to hear. He changed into his street clothes quickly, a dark red T-shirt and jeans loose enough to move around in. He tucked his wand into his back pocket and his pistol into his belt, the shirt big enough that it wouldn’t really be seen. A quick notice-me-not charm ensured that even if people were trying to look for a concealed weapon, their eyes would slide right off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabbed his black jacket from the coat closet before leaving, locking the hotel room door behind him and making his way to ground level. He meandered for a while once he got to the street, absorbing the sights of the city without much effort. He didn’t notice anybody following him like last time, and so, he actually managed to relax. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, he got to a small, secluded park, tucked away behind tall apartment buildings. Nobody else was in the park and the only noises were the far-off running of car motors and birdsong. Since it was summer, the trees all had their branches decorated with bright green leaves. He ended up sitting on one of the metal benches, warm from the sun, and tipping his head back to look up into the foliage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry could see hints of bright green sky peeking through the leaves, and the whole view was so terribly aesthetic that he didn’t notice the shadow crouched in the branches until it moved. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[Hermione, out of the shower, picks up her phone when it rings. The caller is unknown, but, as usual, she isn’t worried. She presses </span>
  <em>
    <span>accept </span>
  </em>
  <span>and holds it up to her ear. The person on the other end of the line speaks, low and unhurried, and Hermione’s mouth presses into a thin line. “If you kill my lieutenant, I’ll skin you,” she says tartly. The response pacifies her somewhat, but she is still frowning. “Duly noted,” she replies. “I’ll see you at five.” Hermione clicks the </span>
  <em>
    <span>end call </span>
  </em>
  <span>button and drops her phone to the bed. “Don’t get yourself killed, Harry,” she repeats, and closes her eyes for a little while longer than necessary.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harry might not have seen the shadow before it sprang into motion, but he was fast enough to avoid it. He jerked violently off the bench, whipping his wand out of his pocket and aiming. It was the same man from the day before, with the same spiky black ponytail, mask covering the lower half of his face, and ragged jacket. His eyes narrowed in concentration as, knife in hand, he lunged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry gritted his teeth and shot off a wordless stunner, but the man dodged it with a fluid grace. The sunlight bounced off of the shining metal of the knife and into Harry’s eyes, blinding him for a split second. In that second of blindness, he threw himself to the side and into a roll. “We meet again,” he muttered, and he might have been imagining it, but he thought his attacker smiled under the mask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He came up into a crouch, gripping his wand tightly. The man stood, a ways off, considering him with that dark gaze. Harry didn’t waste the opportunity, sending another stunner, a tripping jinx, and a knockback. The man somehow dodged them all with barely any movement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Expelliarmus,” Harry said lowly, and the man dodged that spell too. He didn’t move any closer, just waited on the path for Harry’s next move. He was so tired of this bastard. Why wouldn’t he just leave him alone? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back the fuck off,” Harry snarled, and the man was </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>grinning under the mask now. Harry lunged then, aiming a cutting curse for the man’s face. The lunge, apparently, caught the man by surprise and he didn’t react in time to dodge the cutting curse completely. It scored a bright red line across the man’s cheek, and Harry saw him clench his jaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man lunged to meet him, twisting under his guard and scoring his own hit on Harry’s ribs. It was a glancing blow, but a blow all the same, and it ignited a fiery pain across his side. Harry pushed away, scowling, and put a hand to the wound. It came away bloody, and he clenched his fist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Asshole,” he bit out, and shot five more spells in a formation Kingsley himself had taught him. It only infuriated him more when his attacker spun through them all, weaving through the spells gracefully. Suddenly, he was in close, knife flashing. Harry was forced to drop his wand to catch the blow and it rolled, skittering in the dirt, to the side. He wrenched the man’s wrist, twisting it painfully to try and get him to let go. Merlin, he had such a thin wrist. And such small hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the man went with the motion, smoothly running with the momentum and sliding into a crouch. His second hand flicked out and a smaller blade appeared in his hand, driving straight for Harry’s thigh. To avoid it, Harry released the man’s hand and tumbled to the side. A slash to his thigh could be deadly, considering the major arteries there, and he didn’t fancy bleeding out in a park. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione would kill him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolled into a crouch and the man advanced, a knife in both hands, and Harry swore violently. With a sharp movement, he took some of the gravel and dirt of the path into his hand, then tossed it up into the man’s eyes. He reeled back, and Harry pressed his advantage. He sprang up from his crouch with a punch to the man’s gut. He managed to twist slightly out of the way so it didn’t hit dead center, but his blow still connected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s arm came out, slashing with the bigger knife. Harry ducked under the swing and felt it clip the edges of his hair, then lunged, fisting his hand in the man’s shirt and pulling him to the ground. Using his body weight to pin the man with his knee on his chest and his wrists held down above his head, he pulled the smaller knife out of the man’s hand. But by then, his attacker had wriggled out of the hold like water. “Fucking stay </span>
  <em>
    <span>still,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Harry hissed, lunging again. His side flared in pain, yet he ignored it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the man was ready for him. He dodged easily and caught Harry’s arm in a deceptively small hand, pushing him away and to the ground. Within moments, Harry was pinned beneath him. The man’s long bangs fell onto Harry’s face and brushed against his cheek as he leaned in, face scrunched in concentration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes were so dark, Harry thought faintly. Like pools of night, so deep he could drown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait, what?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a ragged yell, Harry threw the man off and stumbled to his feet, backing away several steps and pulling out his pistol. “Don’t fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>move,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he said, and the man tilted his head at him. He was breathing hard, Harry saw, chest heaving. Harry took in gulps of air like a dying man, glaring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drop the knife,” Harry said then, and when the man hesitated, he repeated himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man let out an annoyed </span>
  <em>
    <span>tch, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the first sound Harry had ever heard him make. In the blink of an eye, he’d somehow melted back into the shadows of the trees, and was gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry lowered his gun slowly, still breathing hard. He cursed again and tucked his gun back into his belt. He retrieved his wand from the side of the pathway where it had rolled, then picked up his attacker’s smaller knife. It was a butterfly knife with a black handle, the steel polished brightly enough to shine. There wasn’t anything that he could use to identify his attacker on it, but he tucked it into his coat pocket all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His side chose that moment to flare in pain, and he gritted his teeth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Asshole, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought, and the memory of the man’s dark eyes flashed through his mind. He’d had such long eyelashes, Harry remembered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry’s phone rang, then, and he picked up with a sigh. “Wotcher,” he grumbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry?” said Hermione’s voice, and she sounded oddly relieved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got jumped again,” Harry said, figuring he might as well get it out of the way. Hermione sighed. “Did you give as good as you got?” she asked, echoing Ron’s words from the previous day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe? He slashed my ribs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Healing spell,” Hermione said dryly. “You haven’t forgotten, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry had, in fact, forgotten. With a mutter into the phone that of course he hadn’t, he used his wand to knit up the bleeding wound and repair his clothes.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he was doing that, something rustled in his pocket. He ended up retrieving a piece of paper, folded in half. Harry unfolded it with the hand not holding his phone and narrowed his eyes at the elegant black handwriting. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Find me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He folded the piece of paper back up, put it into his pocket, and took the knife back out. “Hermione,” he said quietly, examining the blade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t wait up. I’ve got something to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Be careful, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry chuckled. “I always am,” he said, and ended the call.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[Hermione, in the hotel room, puts her phone on the dresser and flops down on her bed.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stared up at the off-white ceiling, absentmindedly running a hand through her hair. “‘I find that when one feels like a hypocrite, one usually is’,” she murmured, and closed her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Draco had left with a second illegal Portkey, they’d sat in a park together. He’d leaned back on the bench with a quiet, contemplative expression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Granger,” he said slowly, and Hermione turned her head to face him. He looked tired, far more tired than someone their age should look like. There were dark bags under his eyes that he made no attempt to hide and he felt worn, almost, blurry around the edges like a piece of paper soaked in water. His grey eyes were far away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spit it out then, Malfoy,” Hermione said finally, and he blinked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why go to all this trouble?” he asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You know why,” she said. “Needs must, and I’m the only one, it seems, who can.” Malfoy blinked again, the sunlight reflecting off his translucent eyelashes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But why sell your soul for it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione, taken aback, took a moment to consider the question. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Had </span>
  </em>
  <span>she sold her soul for this? She knew, intellectually, that the Hermione who had stepped on Platform 9 ¾ with starry eyes and dreams of magic would hate her. But she’d just chalked that up to childish naivete. How </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>her younger self understand? She hadn’t been called a Mudblood yet. She hadn’t been told it was probably a more viable career path for her to disappear into exotic research. She hasn’t seen every Death Eater left alive allowed to roam free. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t,” she said reflexively, and Malfoy snorted. “I helped you plan the raids on Travers’ house, the Carrow’s mansion, and Yaxley’s apartment,” he pointed out. “I may have been a Death Eater, Granger, but I still know what morality looks like.” His smile was wry as he ran a bony hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He stared out into the near-empty park. “I’ve never had the luxury of deluding myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione gritted her teeth. “I’m not ‘deluding myself’, as you so </span>
  <em>
    <span>elegantly </span>
  </em>
  <span>put it,” she snapped, and resisted the urge to fidget with her sleeve. Malfoy slid his gaze to her, and she could see the exhaustion there. What was making him so tired, anyway? He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So answer my question, Granger. Why sell your soul for this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione turned away from him and tilted her head up to the sky. It was awash in reds and golds as the sun set over the horizon, the colors of Gryffindor house. The house of the brave, though sometimes, she didn’t feel all that courageous. Like now, faced with her childhood enemy and now ally, she couldn’t even look at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Where dwell the brave at heart, their daring, nerve and chivalry set Gryffindors apart."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Daring? Nerve? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Chivalry? </span>
  </em>
  <span>What a joke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’m going to impress you with my conviction, Malfoy,” she said quietly. “All I know is that I have to do this. I have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fix </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. There needs to be justice for me, for the other muggleborns, for the people disenfranchised by the ministry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Justice,” Malfoy murmured, and to her surprise, a tiny smile crept across his pale face. “I like that word far better than ‘retribution’. That’s the one you used before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s not much of a difference,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy locked eyes with her then, washed-out grey alight with an emotion she didn’t recognize. “There’s a world of difference, Granger,” he said, and his smile widened. With that, he stood from the bench and took a small notebook out of his pocket. “As pleasant as this chat has been, I’ve done my duty. I need to get back to Britain, make sure Weasley hasn’t burned down the ministry or anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione snorted despite herself. “Thanks for keeping him out of trouble, Malfoy,” she drawled, and he chuckled. “Anytime,” he said over his shoulder. “Antidisestablishmentarianism,” he muttered, and disappeared in with a pop of displaced air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trust Malfoy to pick the ponciest possible word for his very illegal Portkey, Hermione thought to herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d made her way back to the hotel room then. Now, lying on her bed, she had even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>time to contemplate her progressively less moral decisions. She was keeping secrets from her lieutenant after all, even if it was for his own good. Part of the contract for working as the Port Mafia’s British liaison had been giving Harry some extra training in assassination. She had needed to twist Chuuya’s arm on that one, but he’d acquiesced eventually. Apparently, the Boss of the mafia considered half-assed assassination attempts as </span>
  <em>
    <span>training. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As long as it worked, she supposed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she knew it, it was 11:30. Hermione put her hair up into a bun with the help of her wand, hoping that would keep it disguised unless fighting broke out. Which, knowing the mafia’s MO, it probably would. She was already wearing a black collared shirt, tucked into working slacks. Her phone went into her pocket and she was, then, ready. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waited at the entrance to the hotel, leaning against the wall with the kind of grace she’d seen Malfoy used and hoped to emulate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At noon on the dot, a black sedan pulled up to the hotel. She could see the blonde woman from the first day, Higuchi Ichiyo, in the driver’s seat. With a nervous inhale, she opened the door and got into the passenger seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ichiyo watched her out of the corner of her eye. “Ms. Granger,” she said in greeting, and Hermione smiled weakly. “Ms. Ichiyo,” she replied, and the woman looked somewhat surprised that Hermione had remembered her name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what’s the job?” Hermione asked then, and Ichiyo pulled away from the curb. “We have certain ties to the Japanese magical government,” she said finally, eyes fixed on the road. “They’ve asked us to go after a rogue terrorist cell of magicals. They’ve apparently holed up in Yokohama.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Their mistake,” Hermione deadpanned, and a tiny smile made its way onto Ichiyo’s face. “Exactly,” she agreed. “They’re to be killed or captured, the higher-ups don’t seem to care which.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. Killed or captured, Hermione could do. Even if the thought of killing someone still made her stomach turn slightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some of that had apparently shown on her face, because Ichiyo raised a blonde eyebrow. “Problem, Ms. Granger?” she asked, far too casually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione shrugged. “It seems odd. Why can’t the Japanese ministry deal with their own problems?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ichiyo blew out a breath and made a left turn. “A couple of them are the children of prominent figures in the government,” she said. “They want us to deal with them as quietly as possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione whistled softly. “Ruthless. Would I be wrong to assume that the people who contracted you are the parents themselves?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ichiyo chuckled. “You wouldn’t be,” she replied, and the conversation died from their. They rode in silence for twenty minutes, Hermione trying desperately not to fidget with her hands. Eventually, they pulled up a block away from a warehouse. A squad of men in dark suits, led by an older man smoking a cigarette, were already lined up in an alleyway. Ichiyo led Hermione over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hirotsu,” she said, and the older man looked up sidelong from his cigarette. He blew out a cloud of smoke, flat violet eyes on Hermione. His gaze chilled her to her core and her back straightened, her fight-or-flight instinct rising. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Beware of an old man in a profession where men usually die young.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s the girl, Higuchi?” he asked, taking another drag from his cigarette. Two others—his lieutenants, presumably—eyed her from their positions at his back. One of them had spiky red hair and a bandage over his nose, probably for aesthetic reasons. Hermione noted at least one pistol on his person. Probably two. The other had black hair in a spiky ponytail and a ragged coat. She matched the description Harry had given her of his attacker, though he’d told her it was a man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorted inwardly. Ah, Harry, oblivious as always. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s one of Nakahara’s,” Ichiyo said, and the older man’s face didn’t change except for a single twitch of his eyelid. Did he dislike Chuuya for some reason? Something to think about later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ichiyo glanced at Hermione. “This is the Black Lizard,” she said then, “our elite assassination squad. You’re to provide long-range support from the back and catch any stragglers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione nodded sharply and pulled her wand from her hair, then used the hair tie on her wrist to wrangle it back up into a ponytail. The redhead scoffed at her. “The fuck is a tiny stick like that supposed to do?” he asked, his expression derisive. Hermione pushed down her annoyance and ignored him, fixing her eyes on the warehouse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>ignore </span>
  </em>
  <span>me,” the redhead spat, and advanced on her. The other lieutenant flung out an arm, a sharp knife held in her hand, and he made to go around when Hirotsu rolled his eyes. “Down, Tachihara,” he said gruffly. “Try not to bite her on her first day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tachihara bristled impossibly further. “I thought we were done with the dog jokes!” he said, indignant. Hirotsu’s gaze was impassive as he took another drag from his cigarette. “Bark, bark,” he said, voice flat, and the other lieutenant’s hand flew to her face. Her eyes widened, and it almost looked like she was choking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gin! I thought you were on my side—” Tachihara yowled, and Gin pressed her hand into her mouth harder. She shook her head and Tachihara visibly drooped. “How many times do I have to apologize,” he grumbled, and Hirotsu blew out a smoke ring without replying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ichiyo eyed Tachihara. “Senpai still has pictures of you with the fuzzy ears and the collar,” she said blandly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tachihara drooped further. “Bastard,” he muttered. Ichiyo straightened and, quick as a snake, grabbed Tachihara’s shirt. She fisted the cloth and pulled him close, a ferocious snarl on her usually placid face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t talk shit about senpai,” she growled, and Tachihara smirked. “He still refuses to give you the time of day, huh, Higuchi? Still panting after him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione watched the byplay with a sort of surreal detachment. She knew she was supposed to see the Black Lizard, the Port Mafia’s supposedly elite assassination group. Instead, she was treated to the sight of Ichiyo screeching at a cackling Tachihara, Gin choking on air, and Hirotsu tiredly stubbing out his cigarette on the wall next to him. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, dry as a desert. “Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be marked missing in action in my mission report?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ichiyo released Tachihara with an annoyed shove. “Yeah, alright,” she said, and adjusted her collar. “Is it time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hirotsu checked his watch and flicked away his cigarette. “Looks like it,” he said, and started walking towards the warehouse. “Secure the perimeter.” Ten or so men in suits peeled off from the main group and took up positions around the warehouse, forming a barrier to make sure the magicals inside couldn’t escape. Hermione hung at the back, wand fisted tightly in her hand. Hirotsu glanced at her. “Pick off the most annoying ones,” he drawled, and Hermione nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quietly, she began weaving an anti-disapparition ward over the warehouse, anchoring it to the walls themselves. As long as they were inside, they wouldn’t be able to apparate out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hirotsu flexed his gloved hand and held it on the door. In a flash of violet light, the door was torn violently off its hinges and sent inside. Hirotsu strode in, utterly calm, with his lieutenants flanking him and the rest of the squad fanned out behind. Hermione cast a quick disillusionment on herself and crouched in the shadows. There were about ten wizards and witches, by her count, clad in long flowing robes and caught completely off guard. They’d been moving crates, it seemed, via levitation. One of the crates crashed to the ground as they stared, open mouthed, at the many men with guns who had just burst in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione began making her way silently to the other end of the warehouse, to the back of the magicals.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yatagerasu,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>said Hirotsu, his tone perfectly polite, “you’re hereby charged with magical terrorism. Councilmen Nakamura and Iwasaki have ordered your capture and execution.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two of the magicals visibly stiffened at the names, the man looking openly distraught while the woman’s jaw clenched. “Bastards,” she hissed, and shot off the first spell. To her evident surprise, it hit Hirotsu’s palm and ricoheted back at her. She just barely dodged and it cut a sizzling slash through the back wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione, concealed in the shadows and by her disillusionment, inhaled. Then exhaled, sending a binding spell at her. She fell to the ground, stiff as a board. Hermione managed to get one more with another binding spell before the Black Lizard men opened fire. The remaining magicals huddled under a reinforced Protego, speaking furiously to themselves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t disapparate,” she heard one mutter. “Fuckers must have a wizard with them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn,” another cursed, shooting off a burning red spell before retreating back under the relative safety of the Protego. Hermione gritted her teeth. A prolonged shootout wasn’t going to be good for the Black Lizard, considering they’d run out of ammo eventually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bombarda,” she whispered, and the floor under the magicals exploded. They were thrown to the side, too disoriented to put up shield charms in time. The ones that weren’t immediately shot met their end on Gin’s flashing knives or skewered by...were those </span>
  <em>
    <span>needles? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hermione noted Tachihara’s hands were out and his face was scrunched into a frown of concentration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Metal shards and bullets from the ground rose, and Hermione hastily got the hell out of the way as they flew straight for the remaining magicals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked away as their screams filled the air, and released her disillusionment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin, </span>
  </em>
  <span>ability users and their deadly abilities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stood from her crouch and made her way over to the bodies. One was still alive, she noted clinically, and bound them with an incarcerous spell. He was the only one to survive, it seemed. The ones she had bound were shot through with bullets. A waste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She levitated him off the ground and had his still-bleeding body follow her as she walked over to Hirotsu, who had taken out another cigarette and a Zippo lighter. He took a drag and regarded her. “Good thing there’s one still kicking,” Tachihara cut in, eyeing the body. “They’ll want to interrogate him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hirotsu blew out a cloud of smoke. “Indeed,” he murmured. He turned, his lieutenants falling in behind him, and began to walk to the door. But then one of the high windows burst in with a crash of breaking glass, and two people dropped into the warehouse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione turned, wand out, and saw that Gin had slid into a defensive crouch with her knife raised. Tachihara had whipped out a pistol and was aiming, while Hirotsu turned around slowly. There, illuminated by a beam of sunlight, were two men straightening. The shorter one, Hermione didn’t recognize. He wore a white button-up with suspenders and his hair was even paler than Draco’s. He had strange eyes, she noted. Heterochromia iridum in both irises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other man, she knew. Osamu Dazai looked exactly the same as he had the day she’d met him, bandaged hands in his coat pockets and a bland smile on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raised both eyebrows when he saw her and his smile widened. But he didn’t address her directly, looking instead at Hirotsu. “We were in the area and heard the gunshots,” he said mildly. He surveyed the dead bodies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither Gin nor Tachihara straightened out of their positions until Hirotsu made a vague gesture with his hand. They stood down, but Hermione kept her wand out. This was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>part of the plan, not at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were just cleaning up a mess,” said Hirotsu, taking a drag from his cigarette. His heavy-lidded glance at bodies was pointed and Dazai tilted his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought they were rogue ability users,” Dazai’s companion muttered, and Dazai shook his head. “Her presence says otherwise.” He turned his dark gaze on Hermione then, noting the wand still out and her wide eyes. “You’re looking twitchy, hedgehog.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione bristled at the old nickname. “Still using too many bandages, I see,” she shot back, and Dazai grinned at her. With a sigh, she lowered her wand arm and tucked it into her hair, making a bun around the stick. “Honestly, can’t you go a day without messing up someone’s plans?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dazai had the gall to look offended. “But hedgehog,” he whined, “my goal in life is to inconvenience as many people as possible!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione rolled her eyes. Of course that was his goal in life. Hirotsu was watching them both, still silently smoking his cigarette. “Do you need a ride back,” Ichiyo asked quietly, “or should we leave you to your tête-à-tête?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione sighed. “I’ll deal with him. I assume you’ll get in contact if you need me again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ichiyo nodded sharply and turned on her heel, leaving the warehouse with a decisive air. Hirotsu, his lieutenants, and the other members of the Black Lizard followed behind, one of them picking up the bound magical from where she’d dropped him. Hermione crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one leg. “Really, Dazai. Is this how you greet your old student?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t call you a </span>
  <em>
    <span>student,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dazai disagreed. “More an annoying fly who wouldn’t leave me alone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione’s jaw clenched. “Semantics,” she said, walking closer. She peered at Dazai, examining his face. “Have you even slept, bandages?” she asked, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the tired slant to his smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dazai jerked back, a hand flying to his heart dramatically. “Sleep,” he proclaimed, “is for the weak! The only sleep I seek is eternal rest with a beautiful woman.” He eyed Hermione. “You’re too young, I’m afraid. And...spiky.” He gestured at her hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His companion nudged him. “Dazai, the Port Mafia’s escaping,” he said, watching the last of the Black Lizard men walk out the warehouse. Dazai slung a casual arm around the shorter man’s shoulders. “They’re not important,” he said dismissively. “Atsushi, this is hedgehog. Hedgehog, Atsushi. He’s my coworker at the ADA.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione rolled her eyes again. “It’s Hermione,” she corrected, before taking a second look at Atsushi. “You’re the one Professor Lupin calls on his free days, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsushi’s pale eyebrows shot up. “You know Mr. Remus?” he asked, and the whole situation felt so terribly surreal. Here she was, talking to her old mentor, while the bodies of Japanese magical terrorists cooled around them. Hermione blinked once, slowly, and adjusted her sleeves. “You know what,” she said, “let’s continue this elsewhere. Cafe, my treat?” At Atsushi’s suspicious glare, she scrubbed a hand over her face and gestured to the bodies. “Terrorists,” she said flatly. “Government work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsushi still looked confused, but Dazai nodded sagely. “I figured as much,” he said, and sailed past Hermione. “I know a good place!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Freeloader,” Atsushi grumbled, following after his mentor. Hermione sighed and trailed behind, painfully aware of how annoying the next few hours were going to be. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>My headcanon is that Tachi came clean to the PM and was accepted back, if warily, and was made to wear fluffy dog ears as penance for months. Hirotsu will never let him live it down.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. What Can I Say, Harry Likes Danger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry draws the wrong conclusions, Ron does some breaking and entering, and Gin makes a decision.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Chapter Five</b>
</h1><p>“O no! it is an ever-fixed mark</p><p>That looks on tempests and is never shaken;”</p><p>
  <em> Sonnet 116 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[Harry is perched on top of a rooftop, spinning his wand between his fingers. The sky is bright blue above and he feels the sun beating down on his skin.]</p><p> </p><p>The tracking spell he’d begged off of Kingsley had certainly come in handy, though he felt a little guilty. Using magic felt like cheating. Even though he’d been assaulted by the masked man twice, and all. With a sigh, he let it point him down the stairs and into the apartment building. The man’s apartment was on the first floor, unit 148.</p><p>Before he went in, he cast Homenum Revelio. Thankfully, it told him that nobody was in the apartment. A quick Alohomora let him into the apartment without much fanfare. Harry noted a coat rack in the entranceway, which lacked the man’s signature ragged jacket. But it did have a black tracksuit hanging there and a  coat, built for a woman. Did he live with his girlfriend, or something? That might make things trickier. </p><p>He went through the foyer, which led into a small living room. There was a dark wooden bookshelf next to the TV, filled with strange knickknacks. Harry spotted a tiny figurine of a white tiger on the middle shelf, right at eye level. There were books, too, all in Japanese. An odd black plushy of something with red eyes was lying on a small beige couch, next to another white tiger. </p><p>Maybe his girlfriend really liked tigers? </p><p>Harry moved through the living room and into the bedrooms, checking for traps that could possibly slow him down when he kicked the man’s ass. There were two bedrooms. One was sparser, though it was a mess, with the bed unmade and strange claw marks on the walls. A post it note was pinned next to the scratch marks in neat handwriting. “Call the repair guy, Ryuu, and you’re paying for it.”</p><p>Written underneath in a hurried scrawl was an emoticon of someone sticking their tongue out. </p><p>Ryuu? So was that the man’s name? Shit, maybe he was an ability user. That would explain the claw marks...but he hadn’t activated it during any of the times he’d jumped Harry. He moved onto the second bedroom quickly, after verifying that there was nothing in the man’s bedroom that could hurt him. This one, he assumed, belonged to the girlfriend. The bed was made immaculately, and there was a table with makeup in a neat organizer. But on top of the dresser sat a knife, almost identical to the one Harry had used to track him to the apartment. Harry’s face was set into determined lines. He was definitely in the right apartment. With a sigh, he made his way back to the living room. </p><p>A tap of his wand and the feeling of a cracked egg covered him in a disillusionment charm. With another long sigh, he resigned himself to a long wait. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to it. Almost immediately after graduation, they’d started staking out Death Eater houses in preparation for their first operation as an organization. </p><p> </p><p>[Two years prior, Ron and Hermione crouch in the shadow of the trees ringing the Carrow mansion. It’s a new moon and the darkness seems to be absolute, blanketing the property. Harry’s with them, but they’re the ones going in, not him. His rifle weighs heavily on his shoulders. Hermione has her hair in a tight bun, sprayed into submission with an entire bottle of drugstore hairspray. Harry’s, as long as it had grown, got wrangled into a tiny ponytail by a righteous Hermione and giggling Ron.]</p><p> </p><p>“Time?” Hermione murmured into the little radio communicator at her collar, spelled against magic.</p><p>“1 am,” said Malfoy into the comm, on the channel all of them could hear. “The first op of Winter’s Ragged Hand is a go. Status?”</p><p>“Ready,” Hermione said, voice tight. </p><p>“Half-asleep,” Ron muttered. He hadn’t been able to get a nap in before Hermione, crazy woman, dragged him out of bed and told him it was time to get ready. </p><p>“On standby,” Harry replied dryly, and Ron could see the vague outline of his best mate adjusting his giant fuck-off rifle. Hermione let out a long sigh before starting to cast. Ron followed suit with a disillusionment, a silencer on his shoes, and three esoteric protection charms Hermione had drilled them on the day before. </p><p>“Ward status?” Hermione muttered, and Malfoy let out a heavy sigh. Ron knew they’d left Malfoy at the edge of the property, right at the wardline. He was the one who knew the specifics of the property, with a mental map from a childhood spent running in and out of various Death Eater houses. He’d been designated command for their first mission, but it felt strange to be taking directions from the pointy prick. </p><p>“They’re back up,” Malfoy replied. “I was only able to keep them open for a minute at most before the disturbance would register on whoever they’re tied to. I can’t be your backup.”</p><p>“I know,” Hermione said into the comm. “We’ll be fine, anyway.” </p><p>“You better be,” Malfoy grumbled, “considering I’m staking my future on your bullshit.” He paused. “Alright. Go.”</p><p>Ron inhaled, then exhaled, before sprinting into the darkness. His part of the plan was the more athletically rigorous one. He was stronger than Hermione, after all, though she was markedly more flexible. His job was to sneak around to the back of the manor house and climb onto their shed, then open a window into the second floor. His heart pounded in his ears as he ran. Getting caught here, trespassing and <em> definitely </em> breaking and entering, would probably mean a stint in Azkaban. And he’d probably cause his father to lose his job.</p><p>Shit, the things he did for his friends. </p><p>Getting around to the back wasn’t that difficult. Plenty of ornamental topiary meant he had places to hide if anyone went out for an early morning walk. The grounds, however, were suspiciously quiet. </p><p>Too quiet. </p><p>He could feel his pulse speed up as he flicked his wrist, his wand shooting into his hand. Even the hum of regular night time animals had been silenced. From his periphery, he saw something slightly darker than the bushes move. </p><p>He didn’t dare breathe. What the <em> fuck </em> was that? He couldn’t even alert Hermione, who was still crouched in the trees with Harry, because then whatever that was would hear him. He couldn’t even <em> cast, </em>because most spells let out light that would definitely alert it to his position. </p><p>Out of the darkness came two bright red eyes. </p><p>
  <em> Motherfucker.  </em>
</p><p>Ron gritted his teeth and ran, his feet making no noise on the grass. He just needed to get to the shed, and then he could scramble to the top to escape whatever was chasing on him. He couldn’t hear it, either, and he didn’t dare look back. His breath came short and fast as he sprinted, lungs working overtime. He was so close—fifty meters, maybe? He could make it, damn it! But then something heavy jumped onto his back, sharp claws skidding off the dragonhide of his jacket. Thank Merlin for Hermione’s paranoia, he thought faintly, as he was tackled into the grass. Bearing down upon him was a wolf, with shaggy black fur. It almost looked like a Grim.</p><p>It snarled into his face, jaws open and teeth gleaming in what little starlight trickled down into the grounds. <em> Merlin. </em></p><p>With a grunt, Ron used every ounce of his strength to shove it off, scrambling to his feet. “Flipendo,” he hissed, and the knockback jinx only shoved the wolf back a few feet. It crouched, about to pounce again, and Ron dodged hard to the right. “Shit, Harry, some help here,” he said through gritted teeth, sending off another knockback. </p><p>“Target?” his best mate asked, businesslike. </p><p>“Really fucking <em> big </em>wolf,” Ron said. He dodged again and cast a dimmed Protego, the glimmering blue of the shield stopping the animal’s advance for a second. The claws, bright and sharp, tried to tear through the shield, but it held. Ron used the second he brought to backpedal towards the shed. </p><p>“I see you,” Harry said. “Back up.” </p><p>“Will do,” Ron muttered, and cast an overpowered knockback to buy himself more breathing room. A split second later and without a single sound, the wolf, which had been bounding forward, slumped to the ground. </p><p>“Easy shot,” said Harry. Ron shot a vanisher at the wolf, getting rid of the body and the bullet before it could leak blood onto the grass. </p><p>Panting, he said into the comm, “Thanks, mate.”</p><p>“No problem,” Harry said. “‘Mione is heading over there. Hurry to the shed, yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Ron replied, and jogged to the shed. It was made of jagged stone, with plenty of footholds for him to use. He scaled it in seconds and crouched on the slanted roof. Directly above him was a window, but after a quick identification spell, he saw the glimmer of protective magic on the glass. Shit, they’d hoped the windows weren’t spelled. </p><p>“Malfoy,” he said into the comm, hating the need to rely on him of all people. </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“What’s the latest fashion in small, localized defensive wards?” he asked, and he could hear Malfoy’s sneer. It made his hackles rise. The adrenaline in his veins hadn’t gone away, and he was spoiling for an actual fight. It would be one terrible idea to have it out with Malfoy now, though, he recognized distantly. </p><p>“Aren’t you the one whose brother’s a curse-breaker?” said Malfoy, infuriatingly smug, and Ron resisted the urge to snap at him. “Bill’s been in Argentina on a job since three months ago, asshole,” he growled. “And it would be <em> weird </em>if I asked him.”</p><p>“I nearly forgot,” Malfoy drawled, “that you’re an idiot and the whole world knows it. You’re right, it would be dreadfully out of character for you, nearly illiterate country bumpkin that you are, to ask about the specifics of warding.”</p><p>“Prick,” Ron shot back, though it was a weak retort and the both of them knew it. Ron clenched his jaw, but before he could say anything else, he heard an annoyed huff from down below. “Help me up,” Hermione ordered, and Ron obliged. He crouched and reached an arm down, helping to pull her up as she braced herself on the jagged rocks. </p><p>As soon as she got onto the roof, she tapped him on the arm with her fist. “Try not to argue with the man who’s our ticket out of here,” she said then, and Ron rolled his eyes. </p><p>Hermione glanced at the window then, brown eyes narrowed in thought. She flicked her wrist and her wand came shooting out of her sleeve, then she began to cast. The same standard identification charm at first, but then more specialized ones, ones Ron didn’t recognize. Her tongue was sticking out in concentration as small colored sparks shot out of her wand. </p><p>With a triumphant noise, she twisted her wand in a strange pattern and the buzzing feeling of wards from the window faded slowly. She pried it open with one hand and gestured at Ron. “No one’s inside,” she murmured, “but stay quiet.”</p><p>Ron nodded back. The two of them clambered through the window, Ron with considerably more difficulty, and tumbled into a small office. It was empty, as Hermione had promised. A desk sat in the corner, covered in papers and books and dust. The walls were lined with half-empty bookshelves. </p><p>“Malfoy?” Hermione muttered, and Ron heard him sigh. “You’re in the Carrows’ third office,” he said, grumpy as ever. “Bedroom should be on the other side of the house. Very fancy doorknob, if I remember correctly. You can’t miss it.”</p><p>“You <em> better </em>remember correctly,” Ron grumbled. </p><p>“I have a better memory than <em> you, </em>Weasley,” Malfoy said, tone derisive and scathing as ever. </p><p>Ron opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Harry’s voice chimed in. “Can you guys get the Carrows already?” he asked. “My legs are starting to cramp.”</p><p>“Are you even on the roof yet?” Hermione shot back, and Ron heard Harry heave a sigh. “Coming, coming.”</p><p>“How you three can be so gauche about a highly illegal jaunt into a confirmed Death Eater manor is beyond me,” Malfoy said then. Ron bit back a reply, because Hermione had opened the office door. The two of them darted into a hallway with a sumptuous rug underfoot. It probably cost more than a full seven years’ worth of Hogwarts supplies, Ron thought, following Hermione as she skirted through hallways and around light sources. Almost as if she’d been doing it for years, though he knew damn well all of them had. </p><p>The years of sneaking around Hogwarts had, if nothing else, prepared them for this. </p><p>Hermione had a map of the manor in her head, Ron knew. He only had a passing memory of the scrawled ink drawing Malfoy had shoved under his nose weeks before, kicking his obnoxiously long legs up onto their strategy table. He’d smiled, teeth flashing, and told Ron that he’d better not ruin it, because he wasn’t making any more. Asshole. </p><p>Hermione had stopped in front of a room with an elaborately carved dragon doorknob. “Tacky,” she muttered, almost too lowly for Ron to hear. He had to suppress a nervous laugh.</p><p>She flicked her wand out again and began to cast, little curling spells and dimly glowing stars wrapping around the doorknob and sinking into the wood. The slow, quiet murmur of her voice washed over him and soothed his prickling nerves slightly. </p><p>Without a sound, the door swung open.</p><p>Hermione slid her sharp brown eyes to him, and he nodded once. The two of them crept in, sticking close to the walls. Ron could make out two lumps on a large bed in the middle of the room, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. Merlin, the Carrows were gross. He flicked his own wrist, sending his wand shooting into his hand. He raised it and locked eyes with Hermione. </p><p>“In position,” Harry murmured, his voice loud and clear in Ron’s ear. </p><p>“Whenever you’re ready,” Malfoy added. </p><p>Ron let a small, grim smile creep across his mouth. The spells shot out of his wand, matching Hermione’s, and had wrapped around one of the Carrow twins before they could so much as twitch. A silencer first. Then several binding spells, a Confundo, and both blinding and deafening curses. The colored light of the curses lit up the dark room and struck the Death Eaters noiselessly. </p><p>Hermione walked over, bold as brass, and yanked the blankets off. Thankfully, they were clothed. Ron could see the muscles of Alecto’s arm tensing as she tried to move, and the flexing of Amycus’s jaw. </p><p>“Targets restrained,” he said into the comm, and was greeted by Malfoy’s breathless, delighted laugh. It was a lot less grating when it wasn’t at his expense, Ron realized. It was almost a nice sound. </p><p>“Merlin,” Malfoy said, a little bit of awe in his voice. “Potter, anyone coming in?”</p><p>“None, grounds are clear,” Harry replied. There was the sound of him adjusting his rifle. </p><p>“Alright. Get to the wardline, and we’re home free,” said Malfoy then, and Hermione grinned. “Will do,” she confirmed. The two bound Death Eaters were levitated up and made to follow them as they made for the open window, onto the shed roof, and into the grounds. </p><p>They crept through the night to the wardline without much fuss. Harry was the last to get there, shouldering his rifle with a tired expression and a smile. Malfoy did some fiddly thing with his wand and a lot of muttering, which according to Hermione, was the equivalent of jamming a door open slightly to let them out. They were outside of the ward boundaries in seconds, their captives floating right behind them. </p><p>Malfoy walked over, running a hand through his hair. “Merlin,” he repeated, surveying the Carrow twins with those pale eyes of his. “We’ve actually done it.” With that, he pulled a ragged pamphlet out of his pocket and held it out. </p><p>Ron shook his head, the adrenaline still running through his veins. He put a finger on the pamphlet and made sure their floating captives were touching it too. Once they were all in contact with the Portkey, Malfoy whispered, “Detritus”. They were gone in a flash of light. </p><p> </p><p>[Harry has spent hours in the living room, watching the sun slowly creep down to the horizon. Remaining still for long periods of time is nothing new for him, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.]</p><p> </p><p>The doorknob jiggled, and Harry sucked in a quiet breath. His wand was out and ready with a flick of his wrist. Time to get that bastard back for jumping him every time he went out for a Merlin-damned walk. Carefully, he formed his magic into the correct shape and intent for a stunner. Nonverbally, of course, because sound would give away his position. </p><p>The door opened. In walked in…</p><p>
  <em> Fuck! </em>
</p><p>Had he gotten the wrong apartment?</p><p>A man and a woman walked in, similar enough in facial features to be brother and sister. Cousins, at the most. They both had dark hair, though the man’s bangs faded to a white that must have required absurd amounts of peroxide to achieve. The woman was pretty and feminine in her pale dress, and she clutched a purse in delicate fingers. The masked man was not with them.</p><p>But he’d been so sure the tracking spell lead to this apartment—</p><p>With the grim feeling of failure settling in his stomach, Harry made to get up. He was still disillusioned, so he doubted he would be noticed. He could slip out the door behind them and avoid freaking out the poor civilians whose house he’d broken into. </p><p>“Gin,” the man said quietly, and something in the tone of his voice made Harry pause and the woman to stiffen. “Someone’s here.”</p><p>The woman raised a thin eyebrow but said nothing, watching the man. A crackling energy began to fill the room, the kind of anticipatory air of violence that Harry found distantly familiar. He hadn’t felt that since Chuuya-sensei had showed off his ability. </p><p>Merlin’s saggy left testicle. He needed to get out of there, preferably ten minutes ago. He’d been a fool. </p><p>Abandoning any pretense of stealth, Harry dropped his disillusionment and barrelled for the window, hoping to break through the glass. He could cast a cushioning charm quickly enough to make it to the ground safely, then disillusion himself again and hide. Shit, if only Hermione wasn’t so adamant about not Apparating! Fucking Japanese ministry. Fucking illegal organizations.</p><p>A whistling sound cutting through the air was the only warning he got before he ducked instinctively. A black...something...whipped through the space above his head and into the wall, cracking the plaster.</p><p>He threw himself to the right and into the bookshelf, narrowly avoiding another black ribbon sheathed in writhing red energy. The wood dug into his shoulder painfully, but he was alive and decidedly unimpaled. He decided to use the split-second of breathing room he’d gotten to put up a shield—and just in time. The hungry jaws of another black ribbon slammed into his shield charm, scraping uselessly against the glimmering blue energy. </p><p>Or, not so uselessly. Was the fucking thing <em> eating </em>his shield? </p><p>Harry scrambled to the right and into the coffee table, upending it and sending coasters flying. His back was yelling in pain but he did not care, because there were more black tendrils heading straight for him. </p><p>“I GOT THE WRONG APARTMENT, I’M SORRY!” Harry shrieked,  ducking. One of the black tendrils shot past his shoulder, scoring a red hot line of pain. That thing had cutting power in <em> spades. </em>If only he could get to the window….</p><p>But it seemed impossibly far, now. </p><p>“Die, scum,” the man said tonelessly. The black tendrils seemed to come from his coat, of all things, and three more went straight for him. He tried to dodge, but found he was trapped between the coffee table and the couch. Merlin damn it, he was going to disapparate! The Japanese ministry could go <em> hang, </em>he was not about to die here. </p><p>But just as he was about to disapparate, a quiet voice cut through the oppressive feeling of imminent death. “Wait, please.”</p><p>The black ribbons stopped inches away from Harry, on a collision course for his eye, his neck, and his chest. This man did not fuck around, Harry thought weakly. He was currently looking at the woman, Gin, with a thoughtful expression. He waited silently, the tendrils moving slightly to cut off any possible escape via the window. </p><p>She sighed. “I’m training that one,” she offered up, looking sheepish. </p><p>“What,” the man said flatly, and Gin smiled faintly. It was a really, really pretty smile, Harry’s reptilian hindbrain noted, before the rest of his brain could catch up and squash the thought into itty bitty pieces. No, Harry, he lectured himself sternly. No thoughts of romancing the incredibly attractive woman whose house you broke into, and whose brother is out for your blood. </p><p>Even if she was really, really pretty. </p><p>“Orders from the top,” aforementioned woman said, shrugging. “Standard stuff, plus irregular ambushes. I wasn’t expecting him to actually be able to track me down, though. Much less break into our apartment.”</p><p>“You’re a dude,” Harry found himself muttering under his breath, haunted by the image in his head of pushing his masked assailant to the ground with a hand on his chest. </p><p>Gin, apparently, was blessed with inhuman hearing. She tilted her head to look at him, birdlike and predatory all at once. Harry was forcibly reminded of the feeling of a knife tilting his chin up and the sound of his heart beating in his ears.</p><p> “Only sometimes,” she said. She pulled something out of her pocket and dangled it from pale fingers. </p><p>It...was a surgical mask. A very familiar surgical mask. </p><p>Harry scanned her again, taking in the black hair the same shade as his attacker’s and the same fathomless eyes. That would explain how thin his—her?—wrists had been. </p><p>Harry groaned. “That was <em> training?” </em></p><p>The absurdly sharp black ribbons dissipated into nothing, and the man’s arm fell to his side. “I’ll leave him to you,” he said brusquely, and disappeared into another room. Gin let out a long sigh and dropped the mask back into her pocket. “Orders,” she said, as if that explained <em> anything. </em>She gestured at the door. “You’re free to go, Mr. Potter. I’ll be in touch.”</p><p>Utterly shellshocked, Harry scrambled to his feet and walked to the front door. But before he could leave, she put a hand on his shoulder. Her grip was like iron. “Don’t break into my apartment again if you value your life,” she said sweetly. </p><p>Harry swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. </p><p>Gin patted him on the shoulder once and released him. As soon as he was over the threshold, Harry heard the click of the door. He could breathe again, thank Merlin.</p><p>He took out his phone, intending to call Hermione, before Gin’s words echoed in his head again. “Training”. “Orders”. </p><p>He slipped the phone back into his pocket with a grim sigh. He was going to need to have a <em> talk </em>with Hermione about signing him up for training with dangerous, terrifying assassins without notifying him. This was the sort of shit he should be told, damn it. </p><p> </p><p>[Hermione twirls her wand idly, leaning against the balcony of her hotel room and staring out at the sunset. “Was the secrecy entirely necessary?” she asks, dry as the desert. The man on the other end of the phone chuckles darkly. “Perhaps not,” he says. “But it’s more entertaining this way, Miss Granger.”</p><p>She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. It’s out of its neat ponytail and falls around her face in messy, frizzing curls. “Not for him,” she shoots back, and she can <em> hear </em>the man smiling. “No,” he agrees.]</p><p> </p><p>[A day later, after Gin ambushes Harry for the third time in another back alley and thoroughly kicks his ass, he finds a note on his dresser. Harry had been too scared to do proper grappling techniques on him, rendering his advantage of a larger frame moot.]</p><p> </p><p>He narrows his eyes, the only part of his face visible with the surgical mask still on. Gin was, after all, technically still on call and was therefore in uniform. </p><p>He unfolded the strange bit of parchment with a raised eyebrow. Scrawled in dark, messy script was a request for a meeting. </p><p>Well, maybe not a <em> meeting </em>, per say. </p><p>Ryuu walked over behind him and started reading the note over his shoulder, and he let him. He did realize this was a mistake when the air filled with the murderous killing intent that always accompanied the activation of Ryuu’s ability. “I’ll kill him,” Ryuu said, voice flat. </p><p>“I’m thinking of going,” Gin said softly, and the killing intent seemed to rise. Ryuu turned on his heel and started to stalk out, red electricity whipping around him and sending crackling sparks off every few seconds. “Ryuu,” he said.</p><p>“I just want to talk,” Ryuu gritted out, still walking. </p><p>“Ryuu,” he repeated.</p><p>“I just want to talk.” His brother was out of the room and was making for the door. </p><p>“I can take care of myself,” Gin called after him, but Ryuu had somehow already shoved his shoes on and walked out. He should probably stop his brother before he killed his student, Gin reflected. But he was tired and wanted a long shower. Besides, Harry could probably take care of himself, too. </p><p>Gin wouldn’t be interested in him if he wasn’t.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>After selling my soul to write TIC, I couldn't write for a while. So, I took a break for a little, and binged watched a lot of anime, namely season 2 of K and both seasons of Assassination Classroom. Saruhiko and Gakushuu, both played by Dazai's VA, are basically blue emo Dazai and orange high school Dazai. There aren't any BSD/K crossovers, dang it!</p><p>Then there's Ango's VA...I like to think Ango was a delinquent who dyed his hair orange and skateboarded in his youth, and after retiring from government, went into assassination.</p><p>Anyway! This fic will have romance. Any guesses as to who the pairings are? Well, I mean. One pairing is already pretty obvious. There's another one, though. ;p</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 4k of Ron and Draco Arguing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Winter's Ragged Hand gets an unwelcome surprise, Ron gets bullied, and Draco meets someone he hoped he would never see again.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Chapter Six</b>
</h1><p>
  <span>“Sound trumpets! let our bloody colours wave!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And either victory, or else a grave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Henry VI, Part 3</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[London is as cloudy and wet as ever, and Ron is holed up inside his office shuffling through paperwork. Then his phone rings.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ron pulled the device out of his pocket and sighed upon seeing the number. He glanced around, and, not seeing anyone, flipped it open and pressed the green button. “What’s so urgent you need to call me in the middle of a workday, Malfoy?” Ron bit out, leaning back in his chair. He pushed himself into a lazy spin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Make an excuse,” Malfoy snapped on the other end, sounding harried. “I need you on the street </span>
  <em>
    <span>now.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finally asking me out, are you?” Ron shot back. He was already getting out of his chair and scribbling out a note that he wasn’t feeling well. He could afford to skip out, probably. It was a slow day anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not funny,” Malfoy snarled. “On the street, fucking yesterday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright, Merlin,” Ron replied, picking his jacket up from the back of his chair and haphazardly putting it on with his phone wedged between his ear and shoulder. Malfoy ended the call then, and Ron folded it back up and dropped it into his pocket with a sigh. He checked for his wand. It was still in his jacket pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As quickly as he could, he made his way into the lift. There wasn’t anyone else in there except a secretary, and they were both going down to the atrium level. He tried not to fidget. Malfoy was usually so calm and composed, but he’d sounded genuinely distressed. What could he have found that was so important that he needed to call Ron?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While exiting the lift, he ducked his head to make sure nobody paid too much attention to him. Unfortunately, he was cursed with bright red hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ron!” called a jovial voice, and Ron muttered a curse under his breath. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>damn it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wotcher, Seamus,” he replied, pasting on a friendly, open smile. The trainee auror barrelled over, grinning massively. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he greeted. “How’ve you been?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So-so,” Ron said, shrugging. “I don’t feel so great right now, so I was going to go for a walk to clear my head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seamus looked disappointed. “Company or…?” he offered, and Ron shook his head with a rueful expression. “Migraine,” he admitted, and Seamus nodded in understanding. “We’ll catch up some other time,” he promised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely,” Ron said, and gave Seamus a jaunty wave as he turned the corner to the street entrance of the Ministry of Magic. Always having to keep up appearances drained his energy. Seamus probably had information for him, but he couldn’t exactly have a clandestine meeting at the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few jittery minutes later, he was on the street, glancing around. It didn’t take long for him to spot Malfoy’s distinctive pale hair. He was leaning on a telephone pole, oblivious to the dirty glances of the passerby. His face was tight and worn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron hurried over. “What was so important that you had to drag me out of work?” Ron hissed, and Malfoy’s face scrunched up further. Instead of answering, he gestured at the wall of the alley he was right by. “Are you blind as well as dumb, Weasley?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron peered at the wall. “It’s a bunch of bricks,” he shot back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Moron,” Malfoy muttered. His hand shot out and grabbed Ron by the wrist, surprisingly strong. His thin fingers dug into Ron’s skin where Ron’s sleeve stopped as he was dragged bodily into the alley. “Look,” Malfoy ordered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron squinted. There was an odd glimmer there on the wall, almost as if….</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glamour?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sharp cut of his hand through the air, Malfoy dispelled the glamour. Nonverbal </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>wandless, Ron thought, almost appreciatively. But what he saw on the wall itself made his blood run cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bloody hell,” he breathed, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He snapped a couple pictures from slightly different angles. “Did you tell—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not yet,” Malfoy said, cutting him off. “I wanted to be sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You needed a second opinion for </span>
  <em>
    <span>this?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ron asked incredulously, and Malfoy’s frown deepened. “For what it means, dumbass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron stared at what Malfoy’s dispelling charm had shown. The upraised palm that was the calling card of their organization was drawn in stark black paint. But blood, painted in dark, unmistakable red, dripped off of the line drawing. The mural stretched the height of the wall, imposing and horrifying in equal measure like a picture straight out of a horror movie. Underneath the hand was the roman numeral X, and a message. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“One choked his little self and then there were nine.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron gritted his teeth and moved forward, inspecting the dry and flaking paint. “Spray paint,” he murmured. “It’s muggle in origin, other than the glamour. Was that yours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy nodded, pale hair falling in front of his face like a curtain. He brushed it back with a frustrated jerk of his hand. “It’s right by the damn Ministry,” Malfoy replied. “Who knows who’s seen it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hopefully no one,” Ron said. “God, if the Prophet sees this? They’d have a field day. It looks like a threat against the ministry, from </span>
  <em>
    <span>us.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A muscle in Malfoy’s jaw flexed. “It wasn’t us, was it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron whipped around to stare at him, the sick feeling in his stomach growing heavier by the second. They locked eyes for a long moment, bright blue and washed-out grey. “You would have been told, if it was,” he said finally, and Malfoy nodded. “Besides,” Ron added, “this isn’t our style.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clock Tower,” Malfoy breathed, and Ron’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A phone rang, cutting through the quiet of the alleyway compared to the bustle of the street. Malfoy took out his cellphone and flipped it open. “It’s the boss,” he said, and took the call. “We have a situation,” he began, but whatever Hermione said made his face drain of color. “What?” he said, swallowing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he said then, his voice faint. “Weasley. Send her the pictures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Normally, Ron would have bristled and said something to the effect of “I don’t take orders from you”. But instead, he tapped a few buttons on his phone, sending off the photos he’d taken. “Sent,” he murmured, and Malfoy nodded sharply. “Did you get them, Granger?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was still white as a sheet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy took the phone from his ear and beckoned Ron over, then pressed the speakerphone button. Hermione’s voice rang out, audibly shaken. “We got a body dumped in our hotel room,” she said, and Ron sucked in a breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clear sounds of strangulation,” she added. Ron closed his eyes and rubbed his face with a tired hand. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the plan, Granger?” Malfoy asked, impatient. Ron shot him a look, but the man’s jaw was tight and his eyes narrowed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a moment of silence from the other end, and then Ron heard Hermione sigh. “This changes things,” she said. They waited for her to continue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy was close enough to Ron that he could smell the man’s aftershave and see the small lines around his eyes. There were dark bruises under them, too, and Ron wondered if he’d gotten to sleep after his jaunt to Japan a few days prior. But before he could follow that line of thought, Hermione’s voice interrupted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ron, you’re on Strategy. Malfoy, I want you on the PR front. We’re changing it up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So far, Hermione had given Malfoy mostly free reign on the strategy end of things, because he had his hands in almost every pot when it came to pureblood society. Ron had mostly been managing their image by keeping his ear to the ground in the ministry, making sure nobody looked too closely at the Death Eater disappearances. Make some evidence get conveniently lost, drop some rumors in the right places, facilitate some anonymous donations...but she was right, he reflected. This wasn’t just politics anymore. The mural was an act of war. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione’s voice was brittle, shaking with barely concealed anger. “They want to fuck with us? Fine. But we’ll fuck with them right back. Nobody gets to walk all over </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>organization.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pause as both Ron and Malfoy exchanged a glance. “The Clock Tower’s a big step,” Malfoy said quietly. “Are you sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Positive,” came the quick response. “I’m sending Harry back. You’ll need the firepower.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a faint “Oi!” from the other end of the line, and Ron’s mouth quirked up at the side. Sounded like Harry. “Don’t give me that,” Hermione snapped, slightly muffled. A couple of adjustments later and her voice came through clearly again. “He’ll be back within the hour. Illegal portkey, but needs must. Strategy meeting in two hours. I’d like to be the one to go back, but...” She sighed. “I’m needed here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Understood,” Ron said. He dared a glance at Malfoy, whose eyes were narrowed into a frown. “Meeting at base?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” said Hermione. “Call me then. And get rid of that mural!” The phone clicked off then, and Malfoy let out a sigh. He dropped the phone back into his pocket and leaned against the wall, looking more tired than ever. “Orders, Weasley?” he asked, almost lazily, and Ron startled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy rolled his eyes. “She appointed you as strategy,” he pointed out. “And you’re Acting Director when she’s out of town. So, orders, Weasley?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron swallowed hard. Orders. Right, he was Acting Director in Hermione’s...no, the Director’s absence. He hadn’t had to do anything in that position before, and the responsibility felt like a heavy weight on his shoulders. He wouldn’t let them down. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He straightened and looked Malfoy in the eye. “We get rid of the mural,” he said, and Malfoy nodded. He twirled his wand carefully, and the hand dripping blood disappeared. Then his wand disappeared into his sleeve with a flick of his wrist, and Ron nodded back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Headquarters?” Malfoy asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Headquarters,” Ron agreed, and the two men apparated away. Ron held the image of their base of operation firmly in his head, and one claustrophobic moment later, he was in front of a cottage. It was small, at least when viewed from the outside, and the porch was covered in winter jasmine. Ron remembered the Director carefully cultivating the flowers. She’d been struggling, and he’d almost been tempted to call Neville for help. “Kind of heavy handed on the symbolism, isn’t it?” he’d asked, and she had huffed at him and waved him off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of Neville...shit, he probably had to call him in. The executive branch of Winter’s Ragged Hand was only the Director, Malfoy, Harry, and himself, but they had recruited a bunch of people from their year. They hadn’t been in contact in a professional capacity, not yet. It was still supposed to be the early stages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the Clock Tower had declared war, and Ron wasn’t about to back down from a challenge like that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He started mentally making a list of people he knew he could rely on. Ginny, probably, but she was at pre-season training camp for Quidditch. She would drop everything to help in an instant, Ron knew, but he wasn’t about to sabotage her career like that. He’d only call her in if absolutely necessary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or if Hermione ordered it, but that was a given. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He quickly ran through a list of his subordinates. Cho Chang, he could call her in. She was working in the ministry as an intelligence officer. Dennis was his ear in the Prophet, as a newspaper photographer. Luna...well, she wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>his subordinate, considering she liked to go off and do whatever she wanted, but she did send in interesting gossip that always happened to be helpful to whatever he was working on. He’d send her a letter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shoot, that reminded him. He needed to talk to Seamus, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael Corner, Anthony Goldstein, and Neville were technically Harry’s, so he would wait until Harry got there to discuss them. Last he had heard, they were abroad doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>for him, but his best mate had been cagey on the details. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron walked up the steps to the door of the cottage and opened it with a brass key from his pocket. He let himself inside, wandering absentmindedly into the living room with its overstuffed couch and dark wood coffee table. Malfoy breezed in a few seconds later, and plopped down onto the couch with a sigh. “We’re calling everyone in,” Ron said, and Malfoy nodded. His face was tipped up to the ceiling, blank and relaxed. The pale column of Malfoy’s throat contrasted sharply with his charcoal-grey shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My subordinates have been ready for a while,” he admitted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You never did tell me who they were,” Ron pointed out, and Malfoy sighed. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, then lowered his chin to face Ron. “For their safety, I only told the Director,” he said. “But now that we’re calling them in, it’s safe to let you and Scarhead know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron rolled his eyes. “Do tell,” he said dryly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pansy Parkinson,” Draco said, voice carefully flat. “Theodore Nott. Tracey Davis. Marcus Flint.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron’s eyebrows rose. “Okay, those sound like they have stories behind them. Why the hell did they decide to join our merry band of criminals?” He vaguely remembered Nott and Davis, but he hadn’t interacted with them much. But Parkinson? He remembered her as a raging pureblooded bigot with a vendetta against the Director in particular. And Flint...he’d been Captain of the Slytherin quidditch team. Ron didn’t know much more about him than that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy sneered. “They’re not my stories to tell,” he said, and Ron shrugged. “Fair enough. Can I trust them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in his voice must have trod on a nerve, because Malfoy stiffened slightly. “Sure,” he said, biting, and Ron nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy said nothing else, so Ron began dwelling on possible strategies. He closed his eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Think of it like a chessboard. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The only issue was that Ron had little to no information on the other opponent’s players, and in a game like this, information would win battles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need an agent in the Tower,” he murmured absentmindedly, running through the members of Winter’s Ragged Hand that he knew about. The Director probably had sleeper agents somewhere that he hadn’t been informed on, and he knew that she was probably negotiating for Japanese allies as they spoke. Could one of them infiltrate at this late date? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy’s dry voice broke through his thoughts. “We have one,” he said into the silence, and Ron’s eyes flew open. “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>shitting me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy looked utterly unapologetic as he shrugged, draping himself insouciantly over the couch cushions. “The Director knows,” he pointed out, and tilted his head back up to stare at the ceiling. Ron’s fists balled at his sides and he shot to his feet, getting into Malfoy’s space. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bastard, </span>
  </em>
  <span>always fucking undermining him like they were back in school, and he was blustering little Weaselbee with no talent of his own, always in the shadow of his famous best friend. The anger swept over him like a tide, and bitterness with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gripped the front of Malfoy’s collared shirt with his left hand and pulled him up, inches away from his face. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>Information and Sabotage,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he snarled. “This is the kind of shit I should </span>
  <em>
    <span>know.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy was utterly unfazed as he locked eyes with Ron, pale grey as flat and empty as a lake on a still day. “Intelligence? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m still questioning the Director’s choice to appoint you Strategy on top of that,” he drawled, and Ron flicked his wrist. His wand shot out into his hand and Ron threw Malfoy back, bringing his wand to the front. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In case you’ve forgotten,” Ron said, feeling his adrenaline spike, “I’m also Acting Director, you prick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haven’t,” said Malfoy, shrugging. His expression was utterly unconcerned as he leaned back into  the couch and adjusted his collar. “I just sincerely doubt you have the intelligence to be in charge of gathering information. You were a rather poor student, Weasley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron gritted his teeth. It was true. He’d been a poor student, who never cared very much about getting good grades or studying. Hermione was always the smart one, and Harry the talented one. He didn’t understand himself why he was Acting Director instead of Harry, why Hermione had taken Harry with her when Harry was a much better leader in her absence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “See, even you’re wondering why she picked you. Scarhead’s an arse, but at least he has experience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron kept his wand up a second longer, before letting out a wordless snarl and flicking it back into his sleeve. He plopped onto his chair with a defeated sort of air, and rubbed at his face. He couldn’t look at Malfoy, not when the man was so expertly plucking at all the insecurities he tried so damn hard to hide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bastard,” he muttered. “Yeah, I don’t know why Hermione picked me either. But...I know one thing.” He dropped his hand and raised his head, meeting Malfoy’s judgemental gaze. “I’m not going to let her down. Let all of us down. That’s not my goddamn style.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy held his gaze a moment longer, before his mouth curved into a tiny smile. “I had to be sure, yeah?” he said, running a hand through his hair. “That you weren’t the useless lump you were from school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron bristled at the comment, but the fight had already drained out of him. “Was all that about ‘orders’ in the alley just your usual bullshit, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy shook his head. “I had to be sure,” he repeated. “I’m not following someone who thinks the sun shines out of their arse. If the Director had appointed Potter as AD, I would have left. Better you than him, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?” he said, disbelieving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I try,” said Malfoy, smirking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron sighed, suddenly tired. “Wanker,” he muttered halfheartedly. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, the darkness a comfort to his rattled nerves. “I’m putting you on Sabotage,” he said, eyes still closed. “My contacts will only talk to me, so you can’t take Information.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I figured,” said Malfoy, and Ron nodded. “And I need to know everything your Clock Tower agent knows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy made a humming noise and there was a sound like he was shifting on the couch. He started talking, then, lists of known members and abilities. Their agent didn’t know what many of the abilities did, but they knew some of the names, and they had member names. Ron filed all of it away to look up later in the ministry archives to see if the magical world had any information on them. “The Clock Tower has structure,” Malfoy was saying then. “Not like the Decay of Angels incident that came out of Japan. Those were, what, a loose group of ability users so powerful they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>barely </span>
  </em>
  <span>united by goals and definitely not in methods? But not like their government’s Hunting Dogs either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clock Tower’s got reach and precedent,” Ron murmured. “They’ve been around for decades, and we know they’re huge. The Hunting Dogs model wouldn’t work for them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Malfoy agreed, sounding almost surprised at his observation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are they like the Americans? That one organization, the Guild? I heard they got demolished when they tried to fuck with Japan, but they recently restarted under new leadership.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Americans grew a spine,” Malfoy said wryly, “at least from what I hear. Their new leader’s bloodthirsty, but I expected no less from an usurper. The Order of the Clock Tower is more similar to Japan’s Port Mafia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron made an assenting sound. “I figured. They’re similar enough in scope.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Agatha Christie is the leader, and her rank is Knight Commander. Below her are her Commanders, then her Knights, and then at the bottom are Members.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in that description made Ron open his eyes. He narrowed his gaze at Malfoy. “Hold on. It’s the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Order </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the Clock Tower. In chivalric orders, isn’t Knight Commander the </span>
  <em>
    <span>second </span>
  </em>
  <span>to the top?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy nodded. “You read those books as a child, too?” he asked, and Ron smiled sheepishly. The Order of the Wrenknights was a popular children’s series that his father had been a fan of, and he’d bought as many second-hand copies as he could find. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The top rank of an Order is typically the Grand Cross,” Malfoy said. “My agent said nothing about a member that’s higher than Christie, though. Something to be wary of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron closed his eyes again. “Alright, continue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy started talking again. “My agent is currently only a Member, considering they joined only half a year ago. They’re nearly at a promotion to Knight status. It’ll give them higher clearance in the archives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do we have a base location?” Ron asked, a plan formulating in his head. How much firepower guarding the base could the Order conceivably have at any one time? If they staged a minor confrontation somewhere else to draw out the majority of the forces, they might be able to destroy their base. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smack dab in the middle of London,” Malfoy said. “I’ve got an address. It’s not the sort of place you’d expect for a base of operations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Ron muttered, and discarded his plan. It had too many opportunities for civilian casualties, and Hermione would have his head if civilians were caught in the crossfire. Numerous other ideas were conceived and discarded as Ron thought, drawing him towards the conclusion he had made as soon as he’d seen the mural. “Shit,” he repeated, some time later. He opened his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy wasn’t in the living room any more, having finished his report. Ron could hear him puttering around in the kitchen. A moment later, he walked back into the room, carrying a tray in his hands. He almost looked like a housewife, and Ron had to hold back a laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t look at me like that, Weasley,” Malfoy sneered. He set the tray down. On it was a teapot and a few teacups, as well as a bowl of sugar. “The Director informed me that we’re going to have some company while you were taking a nap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>taking a nap,” Ron shot back. “I was strategizing!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy clearly didn’t believe him, his expression unconvinced. “Sure. Anyway, try not to antagonize them. It’s around 8 in Japan, so whoever it is will probably be somewhat annoyed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did the Director say </span>
  <em>
    <span>who?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ron asked, and Malfoy shrugged. “You know her. She’s cryptic at the worst of times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron sighed and checked his watch. It was five minutes until the two hour mark, so it wasn’t as if they’d need to wait long. Still, not knowing who it was grated on him. “Shouldn’t I be the one telling you not to antagonize them?” Ron wondered aloud moments later, and Malfoy sniffed. “I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>impeccable </span>
  </em>
  <span>manners, thank you very much. You’re the country bumpkin who chews with his mouth open.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron straightened. “I do not!” he said. “At least, not anymore!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy looked decidedly unimpressed, and Ron was just about to defend his honor when there was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop </span>
  </em>
  <span>sound from the foyer. He was standing with his wand out in an instant, Malfoy half a second behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a muffled sound like someone cursing, before the familiar form of Harry Potter meandered into the living room, hands up in surrender. “Wotcher,” he greeted, smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Password?” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow, and Harry—if it really was Harry, though if he wasn't, he should have been rejected by the wards—sighed. “Mate, really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron only waited, the presence of Malfoy at his back strangely comforting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Albus Dumbledore’s left testicle,” Harry said, utterly resigned. “I hate your passwords.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron dropped his wand and stepped forward, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Glad you’re not dead,” he said with a grin. He had no regrets about his passwords. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy slumped back onto the couch. “Merlin, Weasley,” he complained. “You’re so crass.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry gave the blonde man a look of disgust. “Hey, you don’t get to rag on Ron’s passwords. Yours was </span>
  <em>
    <span>pureblood. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Did you want to get smacked by Hermione or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malfoy grinned at them both and ran a hand through his hair. His collar was still rumpled from where he had grabbed it earlier, Ron noticed. It broke up his overly polished and formal outfit, made him seem more human. Even if he was a bastard. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he purred, and Harry rolled his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry,” he said, addressing Ron. “You had to put up with him all by yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I nearly lost my mind,” Ron deadpanned, and Harry laughed. He sobered immediately after, though, his face falling into tired lines. “Our guest should be here in…” he checked his watch. “Well. Now, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was another </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop </span>
  </em>
  <span>and more muffled cursing from the foyer. Ron’s eyebrows shot up at the sound. “Did she—?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry nodded, a smile sneaking back on his face somewhat. “She absolutely did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ron shook his head, disbelieving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>here,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Malfoy said irritably, and Ron waved him off. “You should probably get him,” he said to Harry, who nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sensei!” he called, and a short man wearing a fancy hat stumbled into the living room. He looked the same as he had when they’d last seen each other, Ron reflected. Still short, wearing all black formal clothes, and with hair the same shade of ginger as his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man was bracing himself against the wall and was grumbling in Japanese. He looked kind of green from the portkey. The Director had forgotten to give him an anti-nausea charm. Or, well, “forgotten”. Hermione’s idea of practical jokes was rather skewed by years of giving murderous teachers hell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Malfoy hissed, and Ron’s head whipped around at the venom in his voice. “You demolished my </span>
  <em>
    <span>house!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am so sorry. It's taken about 28k to get to any actual cracky bullshit. It's also entirely my fault, because I forgot to call my Bungo Crack Dealer for inspiration and outlining help. I'm really only capable of writing angst and fight scenes if left to my own devices. </p><p>Have no fear! With the appearance of a certain redhead and...well, several other Bungo characters in the near future, TIC's brand of cracky bullshit will make a reappearance. Thank you for reading despite how this fic is significantly less funny than TIC, at least so far...humor's kinda hard, lol. Anyway! Next chapter will feature a confrontation! Or several!</p><p>And a date, probably, as well as a very angry and homicidal shovel talk.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Uh, Who Even Are These People?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Surprise ;)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Chapter Seven</b>
</h1><p>
  <span>“I count myself in nothing else so happy</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As in a soul remembering my good friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Richard II</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[A scruffy man with his shoulders slumped and his eyes half-shut meanders down a London street, rubbing at his face. His brown hair looks like he hasn’t brushed it in weeks and his button-down shirt has definitely seen better days. He trudges on, valiantly trying to ignore the incessant pinging of his cellphone.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But even he had his limits. Grumbling under his breath, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered cellphone. He flicked it open and scanned the texts, eyebrows climbing higher. And then the damn thing </span>
  <em>
    <span>rung, </span>
  </em>
  <span>because of course it did</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He never could catch a break, not with colleagues like his. Briefly, he contemplated just quitting and retiring to Wales. He could probably set up a bird sanctuary there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But such dreams required money, and unfortunately, he was dead broke. What even had he spent his last paycheck on?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A memory of an especially fat robin and a dark grey swallowtail pecking at his fingers until he bought them extra birdseed flashed through his head, and he suddenly knew where all his money had went. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone just kept </span>
  <em>
    <span>ringing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>With a scowl, he pressed the green button and lifted it to his ear. “I swear to God</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Coleridge, Lewis has been texting me non stop asking where I am. What the hell did you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of Coleridge’s irritating drawl, the only sounds that came through the phone were the outraged squawks of a very large bird. The man’s face relaxed somewhat. “Ah, Mary. What did he do this time?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More squawks, and the passerby started to give him odd looks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Again?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Another, more affirmative squawk, and the man let out a long sigh. “I’m almost to HQ. Tell Lewis to keep her knickers on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could hang up, another voice came through his phone. The sound of it made him cringe instinctively. Coleridge was far too fond of winding an unreasonably long arm about his shoulders and screeching in his ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi, Georgie! Lewis is on my </span>
  <em>
    <span>arse </span>
  </em>
  <span>today, can you help me out?” said Coleridge, whiny and grating as ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary says you tried giving Carroll LSD,” he replied mildly. “Your fate’s been sealed, and you deserve whatever Lewis does to you. Don’t call me before three in the afternoon again.” He folded his phone shut, cutting off the loud expletives of whoever was on the other end of the line, and dropped it back into his pocket. George sighed again, and silently cursed his younger self. What had possessed him to join what amounted to a gang? A posh, well-funded, and well-connected gang, but a gang nevertheless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[If this world looked slightly different, a textbox would have flashed into existence. It says “George Orwell”, and in smaller text underneath, “Ability: Animal Farm”.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The answer, as usual, was that younger George had been just as bad at managing his money as he was now. The Order of the Clock Tower had pensions and good bonuses. Besides, he’d been shit at uni and, without any kind of degree, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>else </span>
  </em>
  <span>was he supposed to do? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kudos to younger him for following the </span>
  <em>
    <span>illustrious </span>
  </em>
  <span>path of university dropout and gang member, he thought bitterly. His walk, purely muscle memory by that point, took him to the front of a nondescript office building. He fished out a card from his pocket and swiped it through the reader, which beeped. There was the sound of the door unlocking, and he opened it. He walked into a grey, utilitarian hallway. There was a closet to his left, which he opened. He hung his ratty brown coat up inside, which he hadn’t been wearing in the first place but rather, carrying on his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn muggy London weather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George could hear outraged squawks from the rooms at the bottom of the stairs. But these weren’t the ones he could understand. It sounded an awful lot like Coleridge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shriek of “Hold </span>
  <em>
    <span>still, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you monkey bastard!” split the air, and George glanced forlornly over his shoulder at the door. He could walk out now, go back home and nap for a thousand years. Shut his window so his birds couldn’t fly through and peck him awake, turn off his ringer and throw his phone in the sink for good measure. Maybe even take a leaf out of Milton’s book and lay face down on the floor for a while. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Lewis would have his head, he mourned, and the boss wouldn’t exactly stop her. With his hands in his pockets, he trudged down the stairs. The door was slightly ajar, so he peeked inside. He caught a glimpse of Lewis, in one of her silly unicorn print crop tops. She was trying to pin Coleridge to the floor with her skinny arms. Being a squirrelly, slippery bastard, he rolled out of the way easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George wondered if it would be too much to ask for the man’s stupid biker hacket to get caught on a nail and tear. But no, then he would wail and whinge for </span>
  <em>
    <span>weeks. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He switched his wish to be that Coleridge’s jacket remained pristine and ugly as it ever was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nudged it open with a foot and quietly tried to sidle into the room. Maybe he could make it to his office without either Lewis or Coleridge noticing him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately for him, they weren’t the only two in the room. Shelley was there too, lounging on a chair like it was a throne in her long, frilly black dress. Her fathomless eyes slid to him, as off putting as they’d been the day he’d joined the Order. “You’re late, Orwell,” she greeted, and George shrugged. “And you blew my cover,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His only warning was a high-pitched squeal before, too fast for him to dodge, Lewis had latched onto his arm. She peered up at him, large green eyes wide. “George!” she said cheerfully, and George resisted the urge to shake her off. She’d pout for months, and that was nearly as troublesome as Coleridge’s bitching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shelley’s right</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> late,” Lewis said, gripping his arm tightly enough that he fancied he was losing circulation. “And I need you to help me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With…?” George asked, hoping it wasn’t something that would necessitate his fourth cup of coffee of the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“String Coleridge up by his toes, of course!” she chirped, and George blanched. He glanced to Coleridge, who had scrambled off the ground and was trying to edge his way into his office. He knew from experience that once Coleridge was in there, there wasn’t getting him out. The man had spent three months worth of his paycheck on a titanium-lined door with at least three locks, maybe more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that something like that would stop Carrol, but it was certainly enough to keep Lewis out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman was currently babbling the various and sundry ways she was going to hurt Coleridge. Over her head, Orwell mouthed, “You owe me,” at the retreating figure of her prey. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[A third textbox would have appeared. It reads “Samuel Taylor Coleridge”, and in smaller letters, “Ability: the Albatross”.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Coleridge winced and shot him an awkward thumbs up, before quickly dashing into his office. He slammed the door with a resounding crash that stopped even Lewis’s rant. The woman turned her head slowly to survey the room. “Oh, he escaped,” she said, sounding faintly disappointed, before springing off of George to stand with her hands on her hips. “Well!” she said brightly. “That’s alright, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” George asked, and Lewis grinned. “I’ll turn off the water supply in the downstairs showers, so I’ll catch him when he leaves the office to go home and bathe!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George darted a glance at Shelley, silently asking for help. The woman sighed and put the book she was reading down onto the small table at her side. “Lewis, dear,” she said, her voice soft. “Carroll’s going on another surveillance op today and he’ll probably want a shower when he gets back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lewis frowned. “But then how am I going to give Coleridge his just desserts?” she asked. On anyone else, it would probably have sounded like a whine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could let Carroll deal with him,” George suggested, and immediately regretted it when she turned to face him. She was outright scowling. “Carroll shouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to deal with him,” she said with a sniff, and George put his hands up in mock surrender. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lewis’s progressively more obvious crush on our sabotage specialist is going to be a problem,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It certainly didn’t help that the man flirted with her at every possible juncture. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Honestly, </span>
  </em>
  <span>did the woman whose surname was Lewis really need to have such a massive infatuation with the man whose first name was Lewis? George didn’t have the energy to deal with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A loud yelp came from Coleridge’s office, along with the flapping of wings. The door burst open and out flew a white albatross, absolutely enormous in the small space of the lounge. Almost as soon as she cleared the door, it slammed shut again. She ended up landing on the floor next to George, tipping her head up to glare at him with one beady eye. She squawked at him, and George chuckled. “Sounds like her,” he said dryly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s she saying?” Lewis demanded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George stared at her. “Mary says you haven’t washed your shorts in a week,” he deadpanned, and Lewis’s cheeks turned bright red. “The l-landlord shut off my water supply,” she muttered. “I’ve been using the company showers, but I figured nobody would notice about my shorts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George sighed, absentmindedly smoothing the ruffled feathers of Mary’s head. “You can use my laundry machine,” he said. “You know where my flat is, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lewis perked up immediately. “You’re the best, Orwell!” she said, beaming at him. He felt a bit of himself melt slightly, just at the edges. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, damn it. He wasn’t so immune to Lewis’s smile after all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[There is a cottage somewhere in England that is unplottable and concealed under as many protection charms Ron could lace together. Draco is frozen in horror, staring at the ginger menace that he clearly remembered ripping the entire roof off of his house after having run of Hogwarts for his sixth year. Part of him is resigned. He knows absurd things happen around the Golden Trio the way the sun rises in the east—it’s a fact of life, and he’s better off coming to terms with it sooner rather than later. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>really, </span>
  </em>
  <span>this takes the cake.]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Draco vaguely registered Weasley gaping at him, but he only had eyes for the man leaning against the wall with a queasy look on his face. He turned to Potter, tacky hat slipping slightly to the side. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Qui est ce salaud pointu?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he asked, and Draco bristled immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sensei,” Potter sighed. “It’s Hermione who speaks French, not me. Here, I’ll do a translation charm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sensei? Doesn’t that mean </span>
  </em>
  <span>teacher </span>
  <em>
    <span>in Japanese? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Draco’s thoughts spun. This bastard was Potter’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>teacher? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Merlin, the universe really did hate him. Before Potter could cast anything, he glared at the redhead. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Va te faire foutre,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he spat, and the man reeled back in surprise. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Merde, t’as compris—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oui, crétin,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Draco snarled, and suddenly Weasley’s broad hand was on his shoulder, pushing him down. He’d barely realized he was getting up from the couch. “‘Impeccable manners’, right?” Weasley said, dry as the desert, and Draco had to bite back an angry reply. Weasley, for once, was being the sensible one. It grated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Potter was muttering something and tapping the man on the shoulder. As soon as he was done, the man straightened and narrowed his eyes at Draco. They were really similar in color to Weasley’s. Was this his infinitely less attractive cousin, or something? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’d I do to you?” the man asked bluntly, and Draco rolled his eyes. “You ripped the roof off of my house,” he said, trying not to snap and say something </span>
  <em>
    <span>else </span>
  </em>
  <span>spectacularly rude. His mother probably would have scolded him for the obscenities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she hadn’t been screaming them herself, considering it had been her house, too. And she’d been the one to teach him French in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man had the absolute gall to tilt his head quizzically, as if he didn’t remember. “Yeah, I do that a lot. You need to be more specific.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took all of Draco’s significant self control to keep himself sitting on the couch. He’d never say so to his face, but Weasley’s hand on his shoulder helped somewhat. “My </span>
  <em>
    <span>house,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Malfoy gritten out. “Death Eater raid. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wizards?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a glint in the man’s eyes that reminded him uncomfortably of Potter’s whenever he was being sarcastic. “Right, that. You should look into getting better support beams.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco let out a wordless snarl, and Weasley’s hand clamped down harder. “Get the hell off of me,” he muttered, but Weasley shook his head. “No can do,” he said, too cheerfully. “Can’t have you assaulting our guest. Also, Harry would probably curse you, and then I’d have to explain to the Director why you’ve been in a coma for three days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco eyed Potter, who was spinning his wand lazily. He looked entirely unconcerned, but his green eyes were narrowed in a challenge, and Draco knew that Potter could hand his arse to him in a fight. It was one of the many tragedies in his short life, and so he let out a forceful exhale and stayed on the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate you,” he gritted out. Weasley grinned at him, almost delightedly. “I know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s assuming I don’t kick his ass first,” said the bane of Malfoy’s existence. He looked somehow completely recovered from the portkey nausea, and had his arms crossed lazily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to fight, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pute?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Draco hissed, feeling his anger rise again. He’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked </span>
  </em>
  <span>the manor, damn it! It had been in his family for decades, and this prick had ripped the roof off and destroyed several floors. The damage had been so bad that his mother had given it up as a lost cause and moved into a house in London. </span>
  <em>
    <span>In London. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The other purebloods had been giggling behind their hands at them for </span>
  <em>
    <span>months</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Daphne Greengrass’s mother still made catty comments about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smirk stretched across his face, wide and feral. There was an unsettling sound and the air seemed to grow heavier, weighing on Draco’s shoulders like a wet blanket. A reddish haze started to steam off of his skin, wisps of it curling into the air. “You want to get crushed by gravity?” he drawled, wind starting to whip through the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What,” said Draco. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man seemed taken aback, the wind dying down slightly. “Gravity,” he repeated. “You know, what makes you...not float?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco had never heard that word before. Was it a magical construct or something?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Potter, from his place by the wall, let out a theatrical groan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still going to crush your punk ass,” the man growled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try me,” Draco sneered. He flicked his wrist, and his wand shot out into his hand. “Don’t make me sit on you,” Wealsey muttered, but Draco ignored him, even if the offer intrigued him slightly. He could probably throw Weasley’s fat arse off of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Probably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brought his wand up, leveling it against the oppressive weight of the air. It seemed almost as if everything in the room was being drawn inexorably towards the man with the stupid hat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just means I won’t have to work too hard on my aim, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Draco thought grimly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Director’s voice cut through the tension in the air like a machete. “Do not,” she said crisply, “destroy my house.” His head whipped around to look at the source, and Potter looked unbearably smug as he held his phone open with the icon for speakerphone blinking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound had made him flinch back. Merlin, had she been taking lessons from his mother? Even the ginger man looked slightly contrite. But there was still a red haze spiraling off of him like curling wisps of smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco gritted his teeth and flicked his wrist again, sending his wand shooting back into his sleeve. He turned to Weasley, who was still grinning like an idiot. Did he imagine it, or was there a tiny crease of worry between his brows? Draco brushed the thought aside and opened his mouth. “Did the Director really send us a mini-glowstick?” he asked flatly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weasley choked, the hand on his shoulder like a vice flying up to cover his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you just call me, motherfucker?” the yapping chihuahua of a man growled, stepping forward. Draco tried not to think about the ominous creaking sounds coming from under his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chuuya, please. I need him </span>
  <em>
    <span>functional</span>
  </em>
  <span> and not a bloody paste,” said the Director, and the man huffed. He visibly inhaled, then exhaled. “You really know how to pick ‘em, huh, Hermione?” he replied then, and with a quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>tch</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the haze winked out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Malfoy,” said the Director then, and there was enough bite in her tone that Draco instinctively sat up straighter. He was bracing himself for the reprimand when Granger sighed, and said, “Apologies for not informing you in advance. I’d forgotten about that incident.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” said Draco, surprised into courtesy. Part of him </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted to say something cutting, but the Director had already moved on. “This is Chuuya Nakahara,” she said briskly, and the man doffed his hat with an ironic smile. His teeth glinted in the bright sunlight, and there was a threat there. Now that he was less likely to drive his fist into that menace’s face, he could probably take his measure like a rational person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>his father scolding him in his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“A proper Malfoy always holds the power in the room,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>his father lectured, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“he doesn’t go for his wand like a heathen.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>To make up for what was probably a terrible misstep that he just couldn’t be bothered to be ashamed about, Draco looked Nakahara up and down. He’d seen the man at Hogwarts, obviously, but he’d also been neck deep with Voldemort’s lot and had other things to worry about than the strange man wandering the castle with a bandaged lackey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Expensive clothing, easy confidence, and what was probably a knife at his belt. Rich, then, and used to being in properly dangerous company. A powerful ability user too if that haze had been any indication. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For good measure, he clocked the reactions of both Potter and Weasley. Potter had called him </span>
  <em>
    <span>sensei, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so he had a fairly close relationship with the man. Weasley knew him well too, from his earlier reaction, and Nakahara was on first-name basis with the Director. So he was the only one out of the loop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Annoying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know most of my subordinates,” Granger continued. “The one who I really should have briefed beforehand is Draco Malfoy. His father owned the manor you and Dazai destroyed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nakahara scoffed. “I did all the heavy lifting,” he said. “Shitty Dazai just wandered around letting himself get hit by curses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Potter chuckled. “I remember that,” he said dryly. “You nearly went batshit on Bellatrix Lestrange.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco remembered that too. How could he have forgotten? The ground had started breaking apart and flying into the air like someone had cast an overpowered Wingardium Leviosa, and his crazy aunt was just standing and laughing like she always did. He’d nearly wet himself from fear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Director,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In what capacity is he helping us?” he asked then, because something about this didn’t sit right with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Granger could explain, Nakahara opened his mouth. “So, I’m an executive in the Port Mafia. After an...unfortunate incident with one of the other executives, I took over our business deals in Britain.” He grinned slowly, his eyes still glinting with a half-mad light. The sight of it chilled Draco to the bone. Merlin, did Granger really have to get one of the outright barmy ones? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He continued, uncrossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “It was just convenient that my business trip ended up aligning with Hermione’s operation. As a gesture of goodwill for our newest liaison, I’ll help you all out when you need it. Just don’t expect me to do all the work, because I have shit to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weasley made a humming noise. “Ingratiating yourselves with the new order, yeah?” he asked rhetorically, and Draco startled. How had Weasley put together all the implications of Nakahara’s statement together that quickly? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nakahara’s grin widened, and a sense of unease began to creep up Draco’s spine. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco darted a glance at Potter, who looked almost as confused as he felt. He shot Weasley a look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weasley saw it, thank Merlin, and sighed. “I don’t have all the details, but when Headmaster Dumbledore contracted them, he promised them influence in Wizarding Britain after all the upheaval. Technically, the upheaval hasn’t ended, so Nakahara’s here as insurance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And because they’ve got a grudge,” the Director cut in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nakahara laughed. “The Port Mafia has unfinished business with the Clock Tower,” he said, and the tone of his voice made it clear exactly what kind of business he meant. Draco suppressed his urge to shiver. He leaned back in his chair instead, crossing his arms. “So, what?” he asked. “You’re here as extra firepower?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Basically,” agreed Nakahara. “I’ve got my own shit to do most of the time, but if you need an extra hand, Hermione and Harry have my number. You also have the Black Lizard commanders on speed dial. I have no idea how Hermione wrangled that out of the Boss, but, well.” He shrugged and refused to elaborate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Black Lizard?” Weasley echoed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Port Mafia’s elite assassination and frontline squad,” the Director said. “Again, extra firepower. We’ll probably need it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weasley’s expression, which had been a curious blankness, suddenly came alive. “That works,” he said, and Draco raised an eyebrow. “So </span>
  <em>
    <span>were </span>
  </em>
  <span>you actually brainstorming? I was pretty sure you just had a kip on the couch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weasley gave him a dirty look. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>was,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he said, with a sniff he must have picked up from the Director. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s hear it then,” Draco said, crossing his arms and leaning back. Either Weasley had something absurdly brilliant up his sleeve or he would choke, and Draco didn’t care much either way. He was far more preoccupied thinking up ways to make the short wanker pay for what he’d done to his house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weasley also leaned back in his chair. “The problem is, even with Malfoy’s informant, we don’t have that much intel on the Order. Worse, we don’t know what intel they have on </span>
  <em>
    <span>us. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Until his informant gets access, we’re losing the war on information. We’ve got a general idea of their base, but it’s in an inconvenient location. Unless we’re willing to risk massive civilian casualties, we can’t have an all-out conflict.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to minimize civilian casualties,” Granger cut in dryly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weasley made an affirmative noise. “The only direction this war can possibly go that ends in the Order destroyed involves using guerrilla tactics. We track the members we know of, keep them under surveillance at all times. We thin them out when we get the opportunity. Dismantle the chain of command.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco whistled. “Not bad, Weasley,” he muttered, having come to the same conclusion. “But what do we do about the bulk of their forces?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weasley frowned slightly. “We need to take out Christie’s inner circle first. Once that’s done, we can put a hit out on her. Possibly through that auror in the ministry—Miller, was it? We need to have her under watch. To minimize civilian casualties and loss of life, we avoid going to all-out battle. My dilemma was if their first offensive move starts with a large scale attack, considering they have more people and resources to burn. With the extra firepower we have on our side, we can minimize our losses in that quarter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Malfoy,” said the Director when Weasley finished. Draco started slightly. “Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Due to the extremely sensitive nature of our forthcoming strategy, we need to keep a stranglehold on information. I’m putting you in charge of disseminating it to our various operatives. You’ll be working with Ron.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Understood,” said Draco, though he wasn’t particularly happy about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry,” said Granger, and Potter made a faintly questioning noise. “I want you on surveillance. Monitor Cynthia Miller’s whereabouts as closely as you can, see if she gets in contact with her sister at any point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Who else is on surveillance with me? We need to get tracking and monitoring spells on the other members,” Potter said, and the Director paused. “Is Goldstein local?” she asked, and Potter winced. “Maybe? I’ll check on him and Corner after the meeting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” said Granger. “If not, I’ll send over a tracking and assassination specialist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hilariously, Potter’s face started to turn red. “You don’t mean—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do try to be professional,” said the Director dryly, and Draco’s thoughts began to whir. Had Potter met a girl in Japan? Perhaps she was part of this Black Lizard? He was going to have so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun </span>
  </em>
  <span>riling the man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nakahara’s eyes had narrowed and he was looking at Potter. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought</span>
  </em>
  <span> Akutagawa was muttering your name!” he said, frowning. “He tore up the practice room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Potter immediately paled. “Uh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nakahara asked, and Potter laughed nervously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I may have asked his little sister out on a date,” he said, and Nakahara stared at him for a full few seconds. “You did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he said, and Potter rubbed at the back of his neck. “I did,” he admitted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nakahara’s expression seemed to be a strange mix of proud and pitying. “You’re a fucking moron,” he said, almost in awe, and Potter was turning red again. Merlin, was he running a fever or something? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weasley nudged him. “I probably need to meet your informant at some point,” he muttered, and it was Draco’s turn to pale. “Yeah,” he agreed. He wasn’t looking forward to it. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I know I said we'd get to Harry and Gin's date, but Orwell really took over this chapter. I'm kind of nervous introducing these guys, since they're OCs, but! Better to introduce them now than later! Anyway, the date will probably be next chapter. Probably. Here's a quick guide to the people who made an appearance! All will be revealed in time :)</p><p>George Orwell, ability: Animal Farm. <br/>Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ability: The Albatross. <br/>CS Lewis, ability: ???<br/>Mary Shelley, ability: ???<br/>Lewis Carroll (mentioned), ability: ???<br/>John Milton (mentioned), ability: ???</p><p>Translations for the French:<br/>Chuuya: Who is the pointy bastard?<br/>Draco: Fuck you.<br/>Chuuya: Shit, you understand me?<br/>Draco: Yes, dickhead.</p><p>Also Draco: You want to fight, bitch?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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